


right as things grow

by wit



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, M/M, Madison Visit, Pining, Summer of 2015, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 74,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26770762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wit/pseuds/wit
Summary: Loving and longing, one thousand miles apart: the summer of 2015, in which Jack realizes what he wants just in time for it to get on a plane and leave for Georgia.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 119
Kudos: 315





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. jack speaks and thinks in french pretty frequently throughout this fic. i refer to it as french and not quebecoise, because i'm fairly sure that the variety is obvious for him. i also included translations in the end notes, but it isn't necessary to disrupt the flow of the reading. everything of importance is written in english, even if it's said in french.  
> 2\. assume all conversations between jack and his family are in french unless specified otherwise. i just didn't like the stylistic choice of using << when writing in english.  
> 3\. jack is a good canadian boy, and americans are ridiculous, so measurements are in meters and celsius. i stuck with american spelling for convenience, and also because his english should be mostly american aside from the accent, i believe. wtf is a feet and a fahrenheit tho, seriously.  
> 4\. warning for general anxiety descriptions, and one near attack. no actual panic attacks occur in this work. also warning for borderline unhealthy mindset towards controlling said attack.

When he was younger, Jack's father used to tell him that his one-track mind was the key to success. It would usually follow hours upon hours of ice crunching under blades in their backyard rink, his father watching closely from beyond the brackets. He would wait for Jack to skate back out, long hair sticking to his forehead with cooling sweat, and clap his shoulder firmly. 

"It's like you've tunnel vision," he'd say, in English reserved for practice. "You look at the puck, at winning, and see nothing else." 

That was before.

After, Jack sat up in a hospital bed and tried telling his father that it was an accident, that he was so focused on playing and winning that he didn’t see how bad it got until it was too late. Years later, he still doesn’t know if that was the truth -- but he does remember his father looking out of the window with his back to the sterile room, shoulders tense and face hard. In retrospect, maybe that was guilt. Jack was too fixated on his own failure to notice. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Graduation dinner with George and his parents passes in a blur. His father and George hit it off immediately, sitting next to each other at the table to talk about their hockey pasts and the Falconers' statistics and the prospects for the draft in a month. His mother intervenes when necessary, pats Jack’s arm at certain points of the conversation to engage him, tries too hard not to appear worried. Jack, for the most part, stares at the white tablecloth and wrings the hands in his lap and thinks, rather intensely, _I kissed Bittle and I'm gonna tell them, I kissed him, I'm gonna tell them, mon dieu I kissed Bittle,_ in an endless loop. He does not tell them, ultimately, but when George shakes his hand goodbye she tells him to get some sleep, so some of it must show.

He doesn't touch his phone until they get in the car, both out of professionalism and because he's afraid of what his face might betray when he does. As he settles into the backseat and his father starts complaining about I-95 in rapid French, he lets himself pull the phone out of his pocket and unlock it with a thumb.

His text conversation with Bitty is still open. The last message he sent was just before meeting back with his parents, red and out of breath: _have a safe flight. call me when you can_. Now he can see that Bitty texted him back with, _I will,_ followed by one of his smilies, and then, _Y'all have fun at dinner!!_ , and then, much later, _Good god you know you're flying back to Georgia when this lady asks if they sell deep-fried okra at McDonald’s._

His breath catches in his throat mid-laughter, constricts his airway. The road passes by them fast and Jack tips the phone closer to his chest, stares out the window, breathes carefully. It feels like the whole world shifted upright; like everything is tilted differently, now, but it’s simply that it was askew before. His fingers hover over the screen futilely, twitching twice, and he finds himself at a loss. 

Bitty's already on the plane, and won't get his message until he's in the car with one of his parents. By the time he's home it might be too late for Jack's bedtime, who needs to get up at five to run and then sort some of his things and then go to his first day of work. And what if Bitty has plans for the next evening and then they'll never synchronize and they won't be able to talk about how he _kissed Bittle, he kissed Bittle --_

Jack closes his eyes, breathes in. They'll make it work. He knows that, because it's been so long since he wanted something other than hockey this much. They'll make it work. He opens his eyes and breathes out.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Bittle**

May 18th, 2015

> :-) 
> 
> (18:22)
> 
> Is that a rare Jack Zimmermann smiley face?? 
> 
> If only I knew Georgian gals were the secret all along 
> 
> (20:31)
> 
> haha
> 
> your flight went ok?
> 
> (20:34)
> 
> Yeah
> 
> In the car with Coach
> 
> Flashing back to all my football watching with Holster, wish me luck 
> 
> (20:40)
> 
> call me when you're home? 
> 
> (20:41)
> 
> I'll try, but I fear mama will kidnap me as soon as I’m there and it'll get pretty late before I can escape (ꈍ ‸ ꈍ)
> 
> Any chance you'll be up late tonight? 
> 
> (20:56)
> 
> no, early morning tomorrow
> 
> (20:57)
> 
> Then I'll wake up with you and call in the morning.
> 
> (20:57)
> 
> bittle.
> 
> i had to bang on your door to get you up for practice all year
> 
> (20:59)
> 
> Well maybe I'm more motivated now :)
> 
> (21:03)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack goes to sleep that night on a bed still wrapped in a plastic cover, in a room overflowing with cardboard boxes. His mother kissed his cheek at the door and his father squeezed his shoulder, told him _on est fiers de toi_ ; Jack was left, eventually, with the naked walls of a new apartment and one single unpacked box of workout clothes for the morning.

He goes to sleep with his phone placed on the other pillow, ringer on at night for the first time in years, hoping against hope to catch it going off before he falls asleep. He doesn't, and his dreams are distressed and jumbled and broken, and his mind cannot stop picturing a warm mouth on his.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Despite the exhaustive tours with his mother and their realtor the previous month, Jack doesn't actually remember much about the layout of Providence. When he wakes up startled that morning he doesn't have any missed calls, and he’s not in the Haus, and this house is not really his home. He decides to head towards the river as he jogs down the stairs; it’s about a mile up until he recognizes the green lawns of Brown, so he loops around campus and turns southeast to the harbor. 

The sun starts rising while he runs, painting the streets orange, so the sky is almost bright when he finally circles back out of College Hill and over the river. He forces his brain to concentrate on counting the thumps of his soles on the sidewalk and the number of shops opening as he passes by, think of anything that isn't the silent phone strapped to his arm or the tangle of emotions between his ribs.

About a hundred feet from his building, the phone starts ringing.

"You've got really good timing," he says in lieu of hello, voice uneven as he struggles to force his breathing under control. On his end of the line, Bitty makes a tired grumbling noise.

"I went on enough morning runs with you to time it. It's still stupidly early, Jack, by the way." His voice is sleepy and low and Jack thinks of a hundred early mornings at Faber, pale light glinting in the windows and in Bitty's eyes and in the clear ice. Jack realizes that he desperately wants to crawl through the cell-phone and into Bitty's bed, kiss his bleary face good morning. He realizes that he might have wanted to kiss that same bleary face as they walked through campus under the sunrise for a long while, feels stupid for not knowing all over again.

There are a few silent seconds before Jack finally slows his heart rate and says, eloquently, "So," immediately winces at himself. Words were never his strong suit and phone calls always make it worse, no minimal facial expressions to compensate for his inability to articulate. "How, uh. How's Madison? And your parents?"

Bitty pauses and then, after a moment, dashes forward, more alert than before. "It's great! There's sun, you know -- I always miss this weather at Samwell. Coach is as usual, he picked me up at the airport, spent twenty minutes breaking down our playoff game and then ran out of things to talk about. And my mother already pinned some recipes for us to try together, so I'm excited for that."

"...Pinned?" Jack frowns, sitting down on the front steps of his building and taking a swig from his water bottle. Sometimes he exaggerates his lack of cultural knowledge to rile Bitty up, but sometimes Bitty says things like _feed_ and _pinned_ and _hashtag_ , and Jack's honestly lost.

Bitty's eye roll is audible from seven states over. "Goodness, Jack, when will I ever learn. _Pinned_ , like, she saved recipes to our board. It's on Pinterest -- never mind, we should probably start with the basics before we dive in deep. You need to handle Twitter before you can run and all."

Jack struggles to string two sentences together in his daily life, can hardly believe he'd ever have anything interesting enough to share publicly. There's a tenacious part of him, however, that enjoys Bitty passionately explaining things to him, so he says, "Sure, Bittle. I'll be tweetering champion by the end of the year, eh?" 

Bitty sputters and then bursts into laughter. " _Tweetering cha_ \-- you're doing this on purpose, I just know it. Your chirp game is losing its edge in Rhode Island. Anyhow, we'll work on that. I think you'll like Instagram. So, um. What are _you_ doing? Right now, today, uh, this summer…"

Jack pulls the phone away from his ear to check the time, then presses it back in and rubs his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, actually I just finished my run and I haven't stretched yet, and I need to finish unpacking the essentials before heading to the rink to meet George, which is probably when I'll find out what my summer is like. So."

Bitty's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks he sounds dejected. "Oh, so I guess you better go, huh? I assumed the NHL life would be busy, but that's. Quick."

Jack squeezes his eyes and rubs his forehead harder. Phone calls never go the way he wants them to, and he waited for this call all night to talk to Bitty about their kiss. "I -- I gotta go, yeah, but -- can I call you? Later? I mean, I know it's time with your family --"

"No, no!" Bitty cuts in, sounding rushed. "That'd be great, I. I really like talking to you, Jack." He stops and then adds, a little uncertain, "It was good hearing your voice."

Jack swallows. He wants to say, _it was good hearing your voice, too._ He wants to say, _apparently I wanna talk to you every minute of every day,_ or, _I can't stop thinking about you,_ or, most desperately, _I kissed you, I kissed you, I kissed you._ He's an idiot, however, so the words that come out of his mouth are: "Yeah, I. As well. Good. So. Evening? Seven?"

Bitty agrees, and they hang up. Jack stares over his yellow running shoes at a Providence road for a few moments, unseeingly, before climbing up the stairs into his new apartment, ears still ringing with the ghost of Bitty's laughter.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack keeps the radio off as he drives to the rink, allotting himself ten minutes to wallow before pulling himself together at the last intersection. His tendency to overthink has never done him any good, but the surge in his gut isn’t the spark of anxiety; it spreads through him sizzling and slow -- if he closes his eyes, if he doesn't distract himself, his mind goes back to a dusty room that used to be his and wet eyes looking up at him in awe.

He parks the car and leans his forehead against the steering wheel, breathes out once, measured. When he was thirteen his maternal grandmother died and he still won a minor league game. On the ice, there's only the puck and the stick and the net. This is hockey; he’s been working to get here for twenty-five years. Everything else stays behind.

George meets him left of the main entrance, holding two cups. She offers one to him and says, "Black, I remembered," and Jack takes it, recognizing that he isn’t even surprised. George is serious, competent, but she’s also been going to great lengths to be cordial towards him. He doesn’t feel like he’s really earned it, and it never fails to make him fumble.

She leads him into her office. It's brightly lit and decorated with team photos, framed honor certificates and one jersey that probably once belonged to her. She drinks from her cup as she sits down across the desk and drops a heavy pile of papers in front of him, crooks a smile.

"Pen up, rookie."

It's worse than signing his contract. At least then his lawyers had to go over the whole thing in advance. His hand cramps by the thirtieth signature mark -- _followup health declaration, parking space, workplace policies_ \-- while George gets comfortable in her leather chair, texting and drinking and seeming fairly amused.

When he's done he drops the pen down on top of the pile and looks up at George, waiting. 

She smiles again and reclines back in her chair to pull out another stack of papers. "Good. Quick first day brief: here's the schedule, staff phone numbers, locker code. The boys are officially on recovery time for the next two weeks, but some of them are still around. After that it's mostly strength building -- the coaches will work you harder on team dynamics after the draft and last contract changes. Training camp starts in late August. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday are a.m. and p.m. sessions -- Wednesday is a partial and Saturday is regeneration day. And yes, Zimmermann," she says, raising both her eyebrows at him, "that's compulsory."

Jack nods unconsciously throughout, listening intently. 

"Any questions you have, you're more than welcome to come to me. Door's always open -- literally. The hinges broke. Got any now?"

Jack shakes his head and then, because he has some manners, clears his throat to say, "No, I'm good."

"Alright. Well, Jack, I'm more than happy to say: welcome to the team. We're thrilled to have you."

He shakes her hand. It feels more final, somehow, than signing the contract; it's the little things that make a team, not money in a bank account. It's having his own cubicle and a jersey with his name on the back and his phone pinging because George’s added him to the team’s group chat. He's officially and irrevocably not a member of the Samwell’s Men Hockey Team, and he feels heavy with the knowledge of it. The irony is bitter: he walked into Samwell convinced it was a punishment, while now it becomes evident that he’s struggling to let go. 

George looks like she understands. There aren't many people who appear capable of interpreting his microexpressions upon meeting, but George is, and she used that knowledge to pull him in her team's direction. It was the right choice, he knows. Despite feeling inadequate, he thinks he’s safe in her hands.

"Let's go look around," she says, standing, and Jack folds the papers in half to take them home. "Get a feel of the place and try to hunt down whichever teammates are around today."

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack tries his absolute hardest not to compare the rink to Faber. 

It’s not the same, of course. It’s large and well-maintained, and objectively it belongs to a completely different category of arenas. Jack finds himself slow to part with the ice, blinking at the number of seats and the high ceilings like they’re his own siren call. But subjectively -- the sun doesn’t slant through big windows, and the showers don’t run too hot, and the gym doesn’t have Johnson’s initials carved on the inside of the door.

“Makes you miss home, huh?” George asks, and Jack ducks his head, grapples with the concept of _home_ , nods silently. 

Exiting a conference room, the two of them run into Marty. He's carrying a gear bag and isn't looking at them as he mutters, "Sorry," vowels catching familiarly, but when his eyes lift from his phone they catch on Jack's, and he visibly halts before smiling. "Zimmermann! I didn't know you're in today. You just missed morning weights."

George crosses her arms. "Don't push him, St. Martin. I had to verbally threaten him into not stepping on ice today."

"Wouldn't dare," Marty says, and he reaches his free hand out to Jack. "Welcome, kid. _On est heureux que tu sois là_."

Jack shakes it. The French settles over him like walking into his childhood home. " _Je suis heureux d'être ici_."

"Great, you two are going to be horrible," George clasps her hands, but Jack doesn't think she looks displeased. "All I need is another Russian and we're doomed. Marty, can you show him around the locker rooms and coaches' offices? I have another meeting in fifteen minutes."

Marty agrees with ease. Jack hunches his shoulders, squares his jaw, reminds himself that his first day at Samwell was more stressful than this. He’s been straining to get here for so long that he can’t find his own pace now that he’s made it, but he’s going to power through it. Like Samwell: even really good things start with small, cautious steps.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


In the evening, when Jack calls, Bitty picks up in whispers, sounds like he's trying to sneak out of the room. It's useless; Mrs. Bittle still yells in the background to tell Jack hello, ask how he's settling in, how his parents are doing. Bitty escapes the kitchen with frustrated warnings to his mother about leaving the poor Zimmermanns alone, shuts the door loudly behind him to make a point.

Jack finds it all endearingly amusing. Bitty, clearly, does not, and tells Jack about the ongoing afternoon dispute over his mama's choice of pastry for her book club meeting. Jack tells him he met the team's nutritionist, they joke about his reaction if he ever meets Bitty, and then they talk about Jack's meeting with George. 

Jack tries not to notice when scratches of pen on paper indicate that Bitty's writing down Jack's new schedule and fails at that, miserably. He's still processing his emotional reaction, trying to formulate a way to bring up what happened between them, when Bitty says offhandedly that he's got a second cousin who's got a poster of George and then proceeds to elaborate on Coach's side of his family. Jack finds himself talking about growing up with hockey legends as _uncles_ ("I was very young and I never really understood whose side they all belong to, because Grant Fuhr definitely isn't maman's brother,") and Bitty laughs until he nearly cries when Jack tells him stories about Christmases with the Canada team.

They talk for an hour and a half, at which point Coach asks Bitty for help in the garden shed, and Bitty sadly bids him goodbye. Jack's left sitting on the armchair that is a lone piece of furniture in his empty living room, ear red and hot from the phone, cheeks aching from smiling. They still haven't spoken about the kiss.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Shitty threw his very first kegster at fall semester of their sophomore year, and wasn't even too insulted when Jack tapped out after less than an hour. All Jack remembers from that party is the bass drifting upstairs, the drunks knocking on his door, and his conversation with Holster and Ransom the morning after.

"Bro, you do know that she was like, totally trying to wheel, right?"

Holster was looking at him funny, thick eyebrows drawn together. Jack blinked, registered the words, didn't really understand the meaning behind them. "Uh. What?"

Ransom snorted behind him, shaking his head and throwing plastic cups into trash bags. The Haus always looked like hell the morning after a party, but the two of them had been gunning for dibs at the end of the year and therefore were on cleanup duty. Holster went back to sweeping under the couch, but didn't look away from Jack.

"Kristine, last night," he clarified, with a hint of amused resignation. "She was totally giving you the signs and you still went to sleep at like. _Eleven?_ Ransom, buddy, it was eleven, right?"

Ransom nodded in agreement, wrinkled his nose at a discarded undergarment hanging from the window. "Eleven max, my dude."

Holster looked back at him, eyebrows raised. Jack blinked again, toed off his shoes in the hallway. They'd both been bold, for frogs, but he was still getting used to being captain and they were never outright rude, so he didn't bother chiding them. Instead, he said, "Uh, well. I had to get up early. Running."

Ransom laughed then, loud and short, although Jack didn't really know what was funny. Holster's eyebrows climbed even higher, but he shrugged his shoulders and bent to reach farther under the couch, relenting. "Okay, whatever dude. No judgement. I mean, we think she's crazy hot but everyone's got different tastes, right? It's cool."

Jack nodded, stiffly, headed upstairs to take his morning shower. The thing was, Kristine _was_ very good looking, and they had fun the previous night. The conversation had been less stilted than it usually was with people that he wasn't close with, she had laughed at his dry humor, and her perfume had smelled nice. If he'd had known -- well, he didn't know _what,_ exactly, because he still would've gotten up early for a run and party hookups were too loud and impersonal for him to enjoy, but. Maybe he would've walked her to her dorms. Kissed her goodnight.

But he didn't, because they'd just come back from a win and he was still going over it in his mind, breaking down their strengths and analyzing their weaknesses. He managed to hold thirty minutes of distracted conversation and went to bed, scribbling notes in his binder for future practices before turning in.

She was nice, he knew, but that was the extent of what he noticed. When Jack was thinking about hockey there was no place for anything else, and Jack had made it a point, since rehab, to always be thinking about hockey.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Wednesday's a.m. conditioning session isn't as bad as Jack feared. The guys at Samwell used to make fun of him (“Works harder than god,” Bitty said once, and it caught on), but fact is, he’s been pushing himself harder and has been right to. The trainer takes note of his shape and builds him a new plan, and when Jack glances at the chart, it doesn’t seem impossible.

He meets Tater during measuring, his hands extended up towards the ceiling and a tattooed assistant trainer named Danica wrapping tape around his waist. It's then that Tater bounds in through the trainers’ room’s door, exuberant. He’s tall and broad, head shy of the doorframe by a few inches, and Jack instantly feels himself reeling in, face closing off and palms tingling where they’re reaching up. Tater stops cold when he sees Jack, and his mouth opens wide as he shouts, “New boy! He short, too! Hello, I’m Alexei, call me Tater.”

Jack is, by no means, short, but standing next to Tater would dwarf anyone. Whatever the expression he’s wearing is, Danica’s bewildered look suggests it’s nothing good. “Er -- hello. I’m Jack.”

Danica tightens the tape and gives Tater a stern glance, at which he salutes grievously and takes a few steps back. He comes to stand in front of Jack, curious without interfering, apparently intending to wait there. Following him is Guy, who steps through the door without much of a greeting, and crosses over to the equipment room on the other side.

"Oh, no worries about old man Guy," Tater tells Jack, waving his hand dismissively. He’s still rocking on his feet and looks like he’s having difficulty stopping himself from pouncing on Jack. "Always looks like this. My baka said face sticks like that, but he doesn't listen. He very soft on inside, promise."

Guy's carrying a new set of weights back out the door and Jack catches him raising an eyebrow subtly. He nods in acknowledgment out of habit, comradeship, and Guy nods back. It’s closer to the sort of reception Jack has been steeling himself for, more similar to his own brand of inelegant sociability. Tater, with his barely repressed energy, fits better in the sort of partnership Jack thought he was forced to leave behind. 

Danica unwraps the tape and jots down his measurements, allows him to leave for his workout. Tater is thrilled, jumps ahead to tell him all about the team and the roster and the scariest staff members, Danica apparently included. He follows Jack when he steps back into his shoes and out towards the gym, takes position to spot for him when Jack lies back on a bench, rambles for a few minutes. It’s a lot to handle, all at once, and Jack takes it in robotically, trying not to say anything out of place in return. It naturally translates into a series of noncommittal grunts, and when Tater notices he cuts his ramble off mid-sentence.

“Sorry, I talk too much,” Tater says, and Jack can see his face upside-down, the frown wrinkling at his forehead. “Just nice to have new friends, yes? And you very good hockey player, I watch your last season.”

Jack sets down the bar and exhales, tries to mold his face into a smile. He’s not naturally inclined to being friendly, and he doesn’t know how to tell Tater that it isn’t _him_ , or that his best friends are all fast talkers, or that he privately likes encircling himself with extroverts. He wouldn’t know how to strike a conversation if he tried, and Tater’s prattle is well-meaning, it’s just. Jack didn’t plan for making friends. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. You... were telling me about your parents, in the Olympics?”

That’s good enough for Tater, Jack’s relieved to note, because he immediately launches into the continuation of his story. They complete their plans side by side until it’s time for maintenance work with the trainer, and when they leave the gym Tater pushes a shoulder into Jack’s, stronger than he’d probably intended, and says, “Hey, you want lunch? I know place. Very good soups.”

It’s summer. But Tater’s looking at him, eager, and Jack’s itching not to let him down, and the entire exchange reminds him of the boys, so Jack goes. They leave the rink with hats pulled down low and walk a few blocks, Tater mostly talking about the previous season and guys who’ve been traded away and his favorite things about hockey. He manages to pull a few words out of Jack, as well, gruff descriptions of his college team and their playoff run and a few chosen moments from the ice, but he doesn’t seem unhappy about filling the spaces Jack leaves vacant with his own enthusiastic chatter.

The waitress knows Tater by name and doesn’t look at Jack too closely, which finally prompts Jack to smile at Tater without forcing it. The soup is, perhaps surprisingly, very good, and Tater tells him about weird American-made Eastern European dishes he tried in the past few years that made his mother cry when he told her. 

It’s not a bad lunch. Jack’s skin isn’t crawling and he isn’t unconsciously looking for an escape. When they walk back to their cars Tater gives him his phone number and hip checks him affably, tells him he’d see Jack tomorrow as they part. Jack only notices that he’s been holding his breath when he releases it, but when he pulls the key out of his back pocket it isn’t shaking, and that’s, at this point, good enough. Jack starts the car and pauses, looks at the phone he just threw on the passenger seat.

This was his first real day. It went okay. His mind is a constant rerun of worst case scenarios but things usually aren't as bad as they seem when he builds them up in his head. He trained, and he made ungraceful small-talk, and no one seems to hate him yet. He didn't fall on his face or fail to live up to the trainer's expectations or break everything he touched. It was just a day.

It was just a day, and yet, Jack's mind is crowded with the urge to tell one person all about it. It’s staggering that he can. This, more than anything, makes him surrender a foolish smile that’s directed at nothing.

Bitty is quick to answer. "Hey, Bittle -- I was wondering if you had time to Skype later?"

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack is showered and dressed and breathless when he hits the _call_ button, sitting up tensely on his bed. The image is pixelated, unfocused, but Jack can still see this: 

The curtains behind Bitty are ruffling in the wind, swaying; the sunbeams are soft on Bitty's bare left shoulder, the tousled top of his head, the crease of his pillow; Bitty's eyes are big, unsure, and his kneecap is red and cracked from the sun, bent up to support his chin. 

"Hi," he says, and his cheeks turn red, too, and Jack thinks of summer and the smell of baking and the warmth of his skin. Jack thinks he's beautiful, and tries not to let it catch him off guard. Before this, they'd last seen each other when Jack kissed him and ran, and Jack feels it acutely, the uncomfortable nature of change.

"...Hi," he says back, purses his lips. His heart is hammering and his palms are sweaty on his thighs and Bitty turns his head to hide it partly behind his knee, but his wide smile is still visible. The silence stretches.

"So, this is a lil' weird," Bitty says eventually, and the laughter spills out of Jack in a quiet, awkward burst, choking on nerves and too much air. 

"Good weird?" he asks, and Bitty tilts his head back into frame, nodding shortly. "I -- we haven’t really Skyped before, so -- I mean, there was Shitty, but this is -- different. Obviously. I hope it's not too --"

He cuts himself off, face burning. His tongue never forms around the right words, his mouth always has a mind of its own. He's an inept conversationalist. He's learned his footing around Bitty during the course of the year, but speaking on the phone and on video still upsets his balance a little. A new adjustment to be made.

"I like seeing your face," Jack says, almost unthinkingly. Bitty's mouth opens and closes and his cheeks are darker than before. "It's -- good. During conversation. Uh, how was your day?"

“It was good,” Bitty says, and he looks bashful, but pleased and fond and familiar and everything Jack’s been missing. “It’s still two weeks away from camp starting and every day at home brings us closer to being the Kardashians. Do you know the Kardashians? My aunt Connie visited today and it was like living a reality show -- you wouldn’t know Coach could get into an argument about squirrels in Brunswick stew, but there you have it! Last time I saw him this red was when Mike Smith got fired, and that was a whole big mess. Coach and Connie were going at it and the neighbors were starting to look real concerned -- Jack, I keep talking and you need to tell me to shut up.”

“Please don’t,” Jack says, before he fully realizes he’s said anything. Bitty’s gesticulating wildly and Jack’s relaxing into his pillows, his head quieter than he remembers it being in this new city. He keeps watching Bitty’s facial expressions and thinking he never knew he could feel so much for the twitches in someone’s features. “I want to hear it. If you want to tell me.”

Bitty lowers his knee to the mattress, but he doesn’t object, still flushed with embarrassment. “Well, alright, if you don’t mind. But you gotta promise to tell me about those Providence boys, okay? I need to start learning their names.”

“If it’ll be anything like your learning for school, I won’t bother,” he chirps with a tiny smile, but quickly adds, ”I promise,” sincerely. He will, that was the plan all along, and he still wants to talk about the kiss, but right now he wants to keep watching Bitty chatter until he runs out of steam, let himself look at what he didn’t know he was turning away from before. He’s tired and raw and off-balance from his day, the anxiety spiking. There will be time, later, to talk about what they’ve left unmentioned. “For now, tell me what happened with the stew.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**SMH Boys ( & Girl)**

May 21st, 2015

[ _Holster_ has changed the group name to **_Zimmermann vs. Oluransi To The Death_** ]

> _Lardo_
> 
> excuse me
> 
> this is against the bylaws 
> 
> no gc name changing
> 
> (17:18)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> lardo bro
> 
> i have never been prouder in my life bro
> 
> (17:18)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE 
> 
> THE TREASON
> 
> (17:18)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> jack
> 
> my man
> 
> my dude
> 
> you are dead to me.
> 
> (17:18)
> 
> _Chowder_
> 
> ??????????????
> 
> (17:19)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> _hockeyfiction.com/potatomann/1335436…_
> 
> (17:20)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> YOU MET
> 
> ALEXEI MASHKOV
> 
> AND NOW PEOPLE ARE WRITING ABOUT YOU TWO HAVING SEX
> 
> (17:20)
> 
> we hung out once…
> 
> people are very quick.
> 
> also, i don't see how this is my fault
> 
> (17:23, **✓✓** )
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> I HAVE DIBS
> 
> (17:23)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> Is now to the time to remind you that you're straight, or
> 
> (17:24)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> hockey crushes know no genders 
> 
> and having people write about you having shower sex with a bro's dibs is violation of the bylaws
> 
> (17:25)
> 
> _Lardo_
> 
> change the gc name back or face consequences
> 
> (17:26)
> 
> _Dex_
> 
> this conversation is the weirdest
> 
> why am I not even surprised anymore
> 
> also how would jack and mashkov fit in a shower
> 
> (17:28)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> william is right
> 
> it is much more likely that they'd have freaky outdoor sex in the snow
> 
> couple of cold temperatures motherfuckers
> 
> (17:28)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> i'm dming the writers
> 
> (17:30)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> DON'T YOU DARE!!!
> 
> (17:30)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack’s parents flew back home the day after graduation, and by the following weekend he’s amassed a significant number of texts from his mother that he's politely ignoring. On Friday she calls at the crack of dawn to gently tell him that she’s staying out of his business, but that Anthea would like to speak with him. Jack laces his shoes for his run and agrees tonelessly.

He last spoke to Anthea at Easter, right after another Skype call with the Schooners' assistant GM and a week before the Frozen Four roadie. He'd been stressed enough to have a full session in his bedroom at the Haus, which he usually tried his best to avoid. He hasn't spoken to her since, and with school ending and the move to Providence behind him, he knew this was coming. He was also, maybe even consciously, trying to avoid it.

He calls her after practice, late enough to be uncomfortable about it. She's holding a steaming cup of tea and levels her eyes at him over her glasses when he apologizes, says, "I wouldn't have agreed to this hour if it wasn't alright." They worked all through last year about taking people at their word, so he tucks his hands between his knees and shuts up.

They talk about Providence and George and the team, listlessly. Jack says a few words and Anthea hums, and he runs out of more so he says a few words about something different. He can't seem to manage conversation about anything honest, and she looks at him like she knows. She usually does.

"Are you homesick?" Anthea asks when he's been quiet for a full minute. He watches her take a sip and blinks.

"I… define home.” He thinks of seeing the rink for the first time, of George asking, _makes you miss home, huh?_ , and stiffens. “I am technically home, so I can't be homesick."

Anthea takes none of his bullshit. He’d gone through three therapists after the overdose until he stuck with her, mainly for this exact reason. “How about you define home, instead. Are you home? I don’t really care for technicalities. Where is _home_ to you?”

It’s a strenuous question, one that demands a deeper level of engagement and evaluation, and it makes his stomach knot. It’s also his surefire sign of knowing she hit a nail on the head when he wasn’t even aware the nail existed, so he grips the fabric of his jeans and thinks thoroughly before he answers. “Montréal -- I mean. It was my first home, so physically our house there, but these days more so the country and my family. And --” he swallows, looks down. “The Haus. I guess when I think about _going home_ I mostly think about going there. It’s only been five days since I left, so. Yeah, maybe I am homesick.”

Anthea has put her cup down and is looking at him attentively. It’s her thinking face; it means he finally brought up a conversation that she thinks is real. “What made the Haus your home, in your opinion? Was it time? You’d lived there for three years. If you live three years in your current apartment, do you think it will naturally become your home?”

The knot in his stomach tangles itself further, tugging on his organs. It’s not -- the Haus wasn’t four walls and a roof. More often than not, it didn’t even have all four walls and roof in passable conditions. When he thinks of _going home_ he thinks of finding his teammates on that tattered couch and yelling at Bitty about the music blasting loudly and smelling the cinnamon carrying from the kitchen. “No. It’s -- the people?” It sounds like a question, so he rephrases. “Or maybe what the people enabled. It was a place that was ours. Mine. It was welcoming. All the time, but especially since Bittle moved in. He made everything, us included, more -- homey.”

Anthea pulls off her glasses to wipe them on the edge of her shirt. He likes that they both take time to gather their thoughts, that they hold conversations in coinciding paces. If speaking to her didn’t generally force him to look into the depths of his usually dormant emotions, he would’ve enjoyed talking to her more often -- but then, it would also be far less effective.

“Here’s what troubles me,” Anthea slides her glasses back on, and shoves them up with a knuckle. “You live alone. That apartment, for all intents and purposes, is yours. When you lived with your parents or with billets it was someone else’s space, while in the Haus your friends gave the space a sense of belonging regardless of who owned it. But now it is, factually, yours. What’s stopping you from making it a welcoming space for yourself?”

“Is this one of the times when you ask me something but you actually already know the answer?”

Her upper lip twitches. She likes it when he amuses her unexpectedly, but she always tries to conceal it. “I never know any answers, Jack. But I do have a suspicion. For the past six years we talked a lot about how to pave your way into the league, how to achieve your dream, without compromising your health and your happiness. We haven't talked much about what happens when you get there.”

“I play hockey, hopefully. That’s the plan.”

“Certainly,” she agrees, her professional tone slipping momentarily. She has no warm feelings for hockey, and it took him years to acknowledge that it makes him trust her more. “But achieving your dream can be overwhelming, the moment you need to start living it in earnest. I fear that your worries about this reality will make you suspend any efforts to settle in properly, to adapt to your new setting.”

Her fears, more often than not, are close readings of the core of him. Jack doesn’t need to look away from his desk to know what surrounds him. He hasn’t unpacked any boxes containing decorative items or possessions of sentimental value. Aside from a handful of furniture, two empty frames, one pot, one pan, and one set of sheets, this apartment is as barren as the day he’s signed the lease. “I… that may be... Uh.”

His chagrin must be apparent, because she continues speaking. “My opinion is that home is a process. Maybe you should start by recognizing the space as your own -- making decisions in it, changing some things to fit you better. It’s not about the materialistic nature of things so much as the sense of security and permanency it lends. And maybe having your friends over, when your schedule allows it, will make the transition easier. You mentioned Bittle several times in our last conversations. If he made you feel at home before, it might help again.”

Jack has not broached the topic of Bitty yet. He is aware, distantly, that it is a large part of why he was reluctant to have this conversation in the first place. “He -- I --. He’s in Georgia, for the summer. We need to -- talk. About some things. And I just can’t bring myself to raise it over the phone.”

In that moment, in a brief flash of clarity, he realizes that she knows. She definitely knows. His face is burning and she’s the only person he’s ever explained the detailed affair that was Parse to, and he’s sure she’s known for far longer than he did. Ideally, he’s supposed to tell her everything, but it's just not _the time yet_. Their eyes meet, and neither of them speaks, because there's nothing to say: it’s been almost a week, his mouth is beginning to forget the taste of Bitty’s lips, and they still haven’t talked about the kiss.

It did not go, strictly speaking, ignored. Jack can feel the current between them, can feel the way things have shifted. Bitty’s eyes are brighter when they look at him and his voice is softer, less restrained. Jack, on his part, is less firm with his affection, lets more things slip from his mouth without chewing them over for hours, talks to Bitty about things he wasn’t consciously aware he was keeping close before. They both stumble over their words more often, are embarrassed more easily, but that’s because everything holds more weight now, is _more_.

They both _know_ , Jack knows, but it hasn’t been spoken and Jack doesn’t know how to set about it. He wants to say too many things and nothing at all at the same time, and the distance is pulling at him frantically, a weight growing heavier in his gut with every day that passes. He cannot explain any of this to Anthea. Not yet.

She’s the first to break the silence. “Speaking about private matters without close proximity can be hard, especially when you’re accustomed to that proximity. I recall having to wobble through many aborted sessions, when you first moved away to university. Is it an urgent conversation? Perhaps, if it is possible, you could wait until you two meet. The summer isn’t long, and it will give you time to think about what you really want to say. Of course, this is a very tentative advice and you should do as you see fit -- always, but especially since I’m not familiar with the subject of this specific conversation.”

It’s not an urgent conversation. Not really. But it _feels_ urgent -- it burns in Jack, it’s festering in him. It is, maybe above all else, a good reason not to have that conversation in an uncontrolled environment, without the safety blanket of physical connection. He’s so, _so_ terrified of screwing it up. “I just. I don’t really know what to say, honestly, even if I do wait.”

Anthea looks away, pensive. “I have a suggestion. How about we try an old exercise of ours? I’d like you to write two lists -- for yourself, of course, you don’t have to share them with me. Write one list of things you’ll do to make yourself own your space. Then write another of things you’d like to discuss with Bittle, even if you don’t think you’ll end up telling them to him. It might help solidify what you really want to say.”

Jack takes short, steadying breaths, and looks away from her. He sits up and reaches blindly for a stray pen and an old cover of _Hockey News_ , flipping it to a white advertisement page. He likes lists, he’s always liked lists; they help him stay task-oriented, help push away the mess in his brain that he never knows how to unmake. He wrote maybe a hundred lists since he started seeing Anthea, some with her instructions and some on his own.

 _Liste de choses à faire,_ he thinks, and tries to avoid looking up and feeling self-conscious. Things he’d choose for himself, that would make this space welcoming. _Unpack books and posters; print photos to put in frames; buy doormat; convince Bitty to choose baking equipment; pick a wallpaper…_

His list is short, in the end, but it’s doable. Anthea is finishing her tea when he glances up, so he looks back down and flips to another page. _Les choses dont je veux parler_. His fingers are so tight around the pen that he’s afraid it might snap, but he puts it on the thick magazine paper and ignores the spreading blotches of ink. _Does he really like me? If yes, since when? Why? Where does he see this going? Where does he want it to go? Does he want to see me?_ ; Jack catches himself, then, looks at the messy scribble he didn’t know he’d write before he did, and forces himself to push onwards. _Is he okay with hiding? Would he really be happy? Can I make him happy?_

His pen is hovering over the silver hair of a nondescript model in a perfume ad and he writes, more slowly: _Does he know I want to make him happy? Does he know how I feel about him?_

He’s sweating, dampness gathering beneath the collar at the back of his neck. He needs to see Bitty. This is a truth he’s been holding at bay, unsure of how to go forward, but he knows now: he needs to find a way to meet Bitty as soon as possible. He needs to gather his courage and ask these questions.

It needs to be face to face.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack has almost been dreading the arrival of his first day off throughout the week. His rest days have never been free, not really -- there were always optional skates or essays to write or Mario Kart tournaments or grocery shopping with Bitty. He could always exercise, if he chose to, and if he didn’t he was surrounded with alternatives that were more than happy to distract him for a day.

This is his first day off, and he’s alone. Now he understands why George looked stern when she told him it was compulsory.

He’s been handed his dream, and some of it still feels unreal. He wants to keep moving, wants to do his best to prove himself worthy of this second chance, and sitting still has never come naturally to him. Sitting still makes his mind scramble to its edges, makes it drift to thoughts Jack doesn’t want to linger on. His conversation with Anthea from the previous night lingers, the hints of ink on his fingertips make him uneasy. 

He does know himself, however, and so his inability to handle downtime was not entirely unforeseen. He scrambles eggs for breakfast and answers Bitty’s texts from the night and opens his laptop, left discarded on top of the pool table. There’s a yellow sticky note taped to the screen that Shitty dictated to him at the beginning of the week: _skype with my bestest friend on first day off no excuses!!!_

When he calls after putting his dishes in the sink, Shitty appears shirtless on the screen, folded into the window bench in his father’s house’s bedroom. It’s not even noon and he already looks halfway stoned. “Good morning, Jacko! Uber proud of you for calling without further reminder.”

Jack puts the laptop down on his kitchen table, drags up a chair and says very seriously, “Our contract is binding. I don’t have time for legal entanglements.”

Shitty laughs generously and blows smoke out the window. When he shifts, Jack can see that he’s wearing maple-leaved boxers, and feels disproportionately touched. It’s a nice reminder that he’s no longer physically surrounded by his people, but they’d do their best for him from afar. “Sure is, buddy. Soon to be Harvard-approved levels of binding. Which reminds me -- have I told you about the ass lands of assholiness?”

“Are those lands the lax frat house?” Jack asks, getting comfortable. “Because if not, then no.”

Shitty groans loudly and bangs his head back on the wall. “Buckle up, you’re in for a ride. Grandfather took me to tour the campus yesterday. Spoiler alert: I did not jump out of the car and committed public suicide, but it was mostly out of respect for fellow drivers, because it was a close fucking thing.”

Shitty talks with grand gestures and a colorful choice of words, but it’s a language Jack falls into with ease, as natural as the various accents in the Haus. He doesn’t actually, Jack thinks, hate his grandfather -- he does hate his father, most likely, or as much as one can hate their own father, but he tolerates his grandfather with the cold respect of someone who does not agree with a single word another person says. 

“So how’s it going with the bird dudes?” Shitty asks later, tapping his joint against the windowsill. The smoke curls away from his face and it’s like every night they shared in the reading room for the past four years, dim stars and cold shingles and drunk sorority girls laughing down the street, the butt of Shitty’s joint lighting his face in faint red. It makes Jack feel, for the first time that week, like _home_. “You’ve met some of them already.”

“They’re nice,” Jack says, and doesn’t elaborate. Jack never elaborates on people, mostly because it takes him a long time to understand exactly how he feels about them and even longer to put it into words.

Shitty laughs boisterously and leans close enough to the camera that most of the screen is his nose. “Now Zimmermann, don’t get too soft on me. Next you’re gonna say that they’re a great group of guys and you’re ready for a strong season.”

Jack ducks his head, feeling caught. Shitty leans away and takes another drag, waiting patiently, while Jack tries again. “I don’t… I think Marty’s sort of adopted me. He’s cool. Canadian, so it’s familiar, kind of feels like being around my dad’s friends at fundraisers. Thirdy’s nice. Funny. Snowy and I haven’t talked much but we ate lunch together twice, so that’s okay. Guy doesn’t hate me.”

Shitty’s forehead wrinkles. “That’s… good?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t like people very much, apparently. The rest of the guys are still in recovery from last season and I’ll meet them later this summer or at training camp. And… Tater.”

Jack pauses, looks down to fiddle with his thumb. There’s a loose string of skin hanging from the nailbed and he picks at it, tries to rip it off absently. “Tater... reminds me of you, a little. Maybe not in the Russian way, but. He’s very loud. Friendly. He never lets me sit alone if he can help it. He -- you... I --”

There are a lot of things Jack’s never said to Shitty that he knows Shitty knows, anyway. That he wouldn’t be who he is without him; that he wouldn’t have been a good captain without him, without learning how to let people in and letting his guard down; that Samwell wouldn’t have become his home without Shitty, who walked into his life one day and decided that he’s staying, refused to take no for an answer. That he’s one of the most important people in his life, definitely, and that Jack’s been grateful for that for longer than he’s known.

Shitty still isn’t talking, looking at the camera seriously. He’s always been good at that, at knowing when Jack’s line of thought unraveled but would come together again with a little patience. “I’m -- not good at making friends. I wouldn’t know how at all, I think, if it wasn’t for you. And Tater’s nice, we might become friends. Maybe. So, uh. Thanks.”

That’s the most Jack has said about his feelings to anyone but Anthea in months, possibly more, and he’s out of breath like he just ran a marathon. He looks down, takes a moment to collect himself. The seconds drag on, and when Jack chances another look at the screen, Shitty’s mouth is curving a thin line below his mustache and there are tears in his eyes. “Are you -- _crying_?”

“Fuck yeah I’m crying, you dickhead,” Shitty says, and wipes the tears away violently with his unoccupied hand. “You beautiful fucker -- I love you so much, you hear me, Zimmermann? You’re my best bro and I love you and you just made me cry.”

“Uh, sorry. I think?” Jack squints, but Shitty flaps a hand so he assumes it’s not sad crying and goes for the imperative chirps. “I guess I’m honored -- last time I saw you cry was Holster’s goal against Dartmouth in junior year.”

“It was a thing of beauty!” Shitty proclaims, but the line of his mouth is curving upwards. Jack, feeling proud of himself, counts that as a win. “We’re arranging a date. I just decided. I miss your gorgeous butt and you miss my butt and we’re arranging a date. Saturday’s your day off, yeah? Next week I’ve got a fucking thing with my family that I’m making Lardo come to, but how about two weeks from now. That’s the sixth. You in?”

“If you promise your butt won’t be naked,” Jack says, dryly, but he swipes open his phone to type a reminder into his calendar. He wants to think that he would have suggested a meeting himself, and maybe he would have, maybe not -- but this is Shitty, and this is how they work. He knows Shitty doesn’t mind initiating forever, as long as Jack always does his best to say yes.

It’s the first time since graduation dinner that his tongue is burning with the need to tell someone about kissing Bitty. He can’t, and he wouldn’t know how if he tried -- Shitty doesn’t know that’s even an option, and Jack still hasn’t scraped enough words to articulate aloud how he feels, how much he feels. He doesn’t know how he’d handle the questions about himself, or why he hasn’t talked about it until now, or what he’s planning to do next. He doesn’t know how to describe the way his lungs burned when he sprinted across campus, and the way the burn only grew when his hands found home on Bitty.

He can’t, not yet. He wants to, suddenly, so much that it’s teething at his insides, but it’s too much to handle, new and big and scary -- so he does what he does best, and doesn’t. The half-smile he paints on isn’t fake, but it probably doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, Shitty, you’re home for the summer and it’s been more than twenty minutes since you complained about your father. Go on.”

Shitty, he hopes, doesn’t notice. Even if he does, Jack knows he won’t mention it. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Bittle**

May 24th, 2015

> _[attached IMG003456.jpg]_
> 
> the new oven was installed today
> 
> (19:56)
> 
> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> OH MY GOD
> 
> (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ
> 
> (19:57)
> 
> haha
> 
> so it passes the bittle test?
> 
> (19:57)
> 
> It's even better than Betsy 2.0
> 
> You better be good to it sir!!!!
> 
> (19:58)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"How about Stanley?"

Bitty's laughter is high and incredulous, and Jack smiles down at his marinade at the sound of it, fondness spreading through his body. "Jack Zimmermann, you are _not_ naming that poor oven after the _Cup_."

Jack flicks his eyes back to the recipe Bitty emailed him, carefully printed and folded on his counter, and adds smoked paprika to the bowl. "Your grasp of hockey history is sad, Bittle. We'll have to go over it sometime soon. Frederick Stanley was an important politician in the Victorian era --"

" _Stop,_ " Bitty giggles, the sound slightly distorted on speaker phone. "I swear, you're the worst. That oven deserves better than you. Try something more delicate -- how about Mabel? Or Winnie?"

"Are ovens exclusively female in the acclaimed baking society?"

"Shitty will have your head for enforcing gender structures on inanimate objects because of names, and you better believe I'll tattle. Oh, honey, make sure to cut the strips thin enough to bake evenly, maybe use a sharper knife."

There is silence. Jack stares at the phone resting on an empty shelf, cheeks pinking slightly.

"Oh, Lord," Bitty says quietly. "I… you know how I am, with the names, it's a Southern thing --"

"You called me sweetheart once," Jack interrupts. He puts the bowl down on the counter and opens the fridge to pull out the chicken breast Bitty instructed he buy.

"I did," Bitty admits meekly. He sounds somewhat mortified. "See, it's completely unintentional, I should tell you how Ransom chirped me when I called him sugarplum that one time --"

"Bittle," Jack interrupts again, happy that there's no one in the kitchen to see the goofy smile widening on his face. He didn't ever think it could be like this; coming back from practice to make late dinner with this bright person chattering him through it, calling him terms of endearment like he _cares_. Jack doesn't deal in unrealistic hopes to limit his own disappointments, and this isn’t _his_ yet, but maybe it could be. The look on his face must be ridiculous, and if anyone saw him it would truly be humiliating. "It's fine. I like it."

Bitty breathes out, slowly, and then laughs low. "Well, alright, honey. Now back to that chicken --"

"Forget the chicken, your instructions are detailed. We were on the subject of oven naming. How's Francis? Nice and unisex."

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


In April they lost the Frozen Four, and the ground didn't crumble open from beneath Jack’s feet.

Bitty found him, after, hugged him with arms that were tentative but warm, and Jack’s tears were falling on his open palms but he was still breathing. They sat there for a long time, the commotion around them dying out, and eventually they walked outside with their shoulders knocking together, heads bent like they were grieving.

In many ways, they were. It was the last game of Jack’s college career, and he lost. And yet: the world kept turning.

The NHL was looming ahead in the distance, equally promising and nerve-racking; George had been calling him nearly every day, was coming to graduation; Marty texted him, after the game, to tell him that they played good and to be proud. The loss will not bring Jack’s downfall, he knew, will not tear his life around him again -- but still. A part of him, the same part that had never left the bed in the hospital seven years before, had expected it to feel like a failure that would end everything.

In the morning Shitty climbed into his bed, naked and hungover, tangled their limbs together shamelessly. Holster wrapped a long arm around his chair during breakfast, Ransom gave him the last remaining pancake, Lardo bumped his fist, wordlessly, didn't leave his side for most of that day.

Bitty, barefoot and golden in the midmorning light, smiled at him. His smile reminded Jack of his arms -- tentative but warm, all-encompassing, offering silently to help carry the burden. The disappointment was sharp in Jack's mouth, acidic, but it didn't burn through his tongue.

Jack had come to Samwell with burdened shoulders and with the same single-minded focus he had always had. He was there to play hockey, prove his worth, and get back to the professional track he had always been headed towards. He had lived game to game, practice to practice; classes were a means to an end that allowed him to play and eventually climb back up. Nothing really mattered, if he didn't win. Everything in his life had been sharply honed and expertly orchestrated to benefit his game, to push him to victory.

They didn't win. But Chowder moved one seat up at breakfast to make room for Bitty, and Bitty’s thigh brushed Jack’s when he scooted the chair closer, and his eyes were smiling sadly when they met. Jack had never been the best at deciphering his own feelings, had never been the best at reading them on others, but that --

They lost, and beyond the disappointment, he was still happy. The revelation was so earth-shattering that it took him a month and a half to process it.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack settles into the new routine easily, uses the mundane everyday to distract himself from everything that’s changed. He works hard, follows instructions automatically, gets comfortable enough with his teammates without allowing them too close. They don’t play much hockey, too few in numbers, but they run a lot of drills and the ice under his feet grounds him anyway, reminds him of the endgame.

His mornings are early and his nights are late. He calls his mother a few times, doesn’t tell her anything real, texts Shitty and Lardo regularly, answers the group chat when he can. He tries to call Bitty whenever he manages to squeeze it in and is surprised at the things he successfully pushes around in order to fit in a few minutes of conversation. They've also gotten into the habit of long Skype calls, usually on Wednesday when his evening is free. They talk about their days and their lives and their interests, but never anything more. Jack texts Bitty goodnight, every day, and manages not to ask _when can I see you again._

On Thursday his phone rings right when he stuffs his workout clothes into the washing machine, and he reaches for it, blindly assuming it’d be Bitty calling. When he picks up with a fond, “Allô?”, however, the voice on the other side is deep and New Yorkern.

“Dude!” Holster says, happily, and Jack has to fumble with his clothes pile to grasp the phone through his surprise. “So glad I caught you, is this a good time? I tried to calculate when your elderly ass would be back from practice but not asleep yet.”

Jack sets the pile down on the floor and leans against the wall, narrowing his eyes a little. “Uh, yeah, it’s fine. I was doing some errands before going to bed. What’s up, man?”

Holster says, “Hold on a sec,” and then Jack can hear a door closing and footsteps on stairs. “I’m gonna walk outside so my dad won’t overhear, ‘cause he’s got _opinions_. I wanted to ask you a couple things, but I’m stoked that I even got hold of you, bro! What’s up? How’re things? I’m not gonna lie, I miss you in my life.”

Out of all the people in the Haus, Jack’s relationship with Holster has always been the one he was most careful with. Holster didn’t particularly like him, at first, and Jack has reasons to believe that it’s only under Bitty’s influence on all of them that Holster even grew to see him as a friend and not only as captain. But Holster’s a good guy, and Jack’s always liked him. Hearing that Holster also thinks they’ve grown closer this past year makes him grateful in ways he didn’t know he craved. “I miss you too, Adam. It’s been too quiet. I guess I got used to hearing you stomp around these past two years.”

Holster laughs, and it’s warm. “Say no more! Slide a note to your upstairs neighbors to say I’m bringing Rans over and we’re gonna stomp all over you to make it feel like home again. You know how we are -- always got your back.”

Jack smiles, and it’s maybe a testament to how out of elements he’s been feeling lately that it doesn’t even sound like a horrible plan. “Deal. Workwise -- it’s been good. Hard, but good. A new game level, definitely. Coach Hall has got nothing on these guys.”

“Okay, so I’m glad you brought that up. About those questions -- I’m going into my last year, y’know, and I mentioned to you some offers that’ve been coming up last season, right? So I’ve gotten invites to a few training camps when next season ends, nothing certain yet, there’s still a year left and we might like, _suck_ or something. Don’t tell Rans I said that. But if it does happen… I’m just not sure what I want? I like hockey, but I can't decide if it's really for me after college. I wanted your advice, as an official pro and also a captain and also a friend.”

It’s a dilemma, Jack knows, and he does his best to walk Holster through it, the pressure and the environment and the shift between leagues, despite having not played a single game yet. Holster doesn’t sound bothered, keeps firing more questions, and it’s just -- nice to know that he can still be there for his friends, when they need him.

“The staff is definitely more professional,” he says on the winddown of a speech about in-team support. “If they think you’re not taking their instructions seriously, they’re not going to respect you. The nutritionist, Nate -- you know how I am with diet, and he still doesn’t think I’m putting in enough protein, keeps giving me angry looks when I pass him. Bittle says I should pacify him with a pie, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to solve this specific issue.”

Holster snorts, loud, but when he answers he sounds pleasantly surprised. “You keep in touch with Bits? That’s cool, man, you’ve been so busy even though it's off-season.”

Jack’s words catch up with him, then, and the easy retort dies on his tongue. There’s a part of him that’s chastising itself, _toi idiot_ , _now he’ll know_ , but it’s stupid because there’s nothing to know. He talks to Bitty -- they’ve been close, this past year, and that was just as friends. There’s no reason them talking now should be suspicious. Except for some reason, it feels like it is. “Uh. Yeah, I mean. We talk, sometimes.”

“Cool,” Holster repeats, and then he asks for Jack’s opinion about the various teams who’ve approached him, and Jack forces himself away from that line of thought, tries his best to give unbiased opinions.

Later, after Holster thanked him profusely and hung up, after Jack went back to his laundry blankly and tried not to get lost staring at the wall, he thought about the exchange again. This thing, him and Bitty -- it’s been so undefined that he hasn’t realized how structured it really is, a system they’ve established between them. Bitty is a fixed part of his routine, now, like runs and practices and meals, like a direct continuation of coffees after mornings at Faber or paying for Bitty’s froyo when it’s finals week.

He never thought of Bitty as something permanent at Samwell, but then again, he obviously never gave much thought to Bitty’s place in his life at all. Nothing’s officially changed between them, nothing real happened yet, but Jack has a hard time believing that this could be something that’s always been there. He feels perturbed, the rattling sensation of standing on the cusp of understanding without being quite there yet. It’s one of his least favorite feelings, making him feel like he’s always the last in the know, but it’s been an uneasy two weeks and he’s too tired to think it over. He frowns, turning the dials on the washing machine to the right settings, and makes himself let it go. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack leaves the apartment early on Saturday. He puts on his running shoes and a black shirt and tugs on a Samwell hat at the last minute, pulling it down low over his eyes. He stayed up late after practice to do an extensive google search, and he feels like a man on a mission. The goal is to go in, check everything off the list, and get out. Quick and direct, prevent as much of the panic as possible, keep breathing. He texts Anthea before he leaves, more as an incentive to himself than anything else.

The first few stops are easy, straightforward enough: he hands a flash drive with a few of his photos to a printing shop and asks them to deliver the canvases over. He walks into _Bed, Bath & Beyond _ and picks four simple sets of sheets, towels and hand-towels, forces himself not to be overwhelmed by salespeople or variety, and goes for shades of Falconers blue and yellow. He hesitates by the display windows of three different bookstores before picking one that looks unthreatening and buying five books he’s never heard of to fill his empty bookshelves and long roadies.

The streets are unfamiliar, still, and Jack’s a stranger in them. He walks with his head low and pulls his shoulders in to avoid bumping into people. His comfort zones have always been small, heavily guarded, and he’s never been good at expanding them, but Anthea was right. He needs roots, and this time they won’t grow unattended. It’s necessary to make his own home, and make sacrifices for it. 

Jack straightens his back, jerks his chin resolutely to himself, and power-walks across the river to an outdoors flea market.

The riverbanks are swarming, people in sunglasses and hats walking between different shaded booths and marveling at the selection. It’s the last possible place Jack would want to spend his Saturday in, crowded and intimidating, but the idea of Ikea is worse when Jack doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for. This, here, is at least under the open sky. He’s one crosswalk away from escaping and reversing into the city streets.

Jack steels himself, fixes his eyes on the ground, and walks into the maze holding his phone, texting Bitty one-handedly, _bittle convince me that i can’t live in an empty apartment forever._ Jack passes two jewelry stands and a clothing one before his phone buzzes, _Styling is important. Are you shopping?? Take pics of everything and DO NOT buy any variation of that painting where the dogs play poker. You already have a pool table, you don’t live in an underground casino._

It at least serves the purpose of making him laugh. He screenshots the conversation and sends it to Lardo with the caption _your professional opinion?_ , looks for dogs walking around with their owners to send to Bitty in return.

The twentieth or so stand he passes by sells antiques, and the owner doesn’t look up from their magazine when Jack approaches. His shoulders are still tense, but there are painted dishware in sets that look almost complete and Jack picks up one of the plates, searches for a date stamp. The last course he took that touched on artistic eras was in freshman year, but the dish looks old, and the blue swirls on the china are still intact. Since his only dishes at the apartment are plain white and came in an Ikea box, Jack clears his throat and asks to buy the whole set. He refuses to meet the seller’s eyes and he’s sure he’s unintentionally scowling, but the seller agrees to box everything and keep it until Jack heads back later.

He walks by three stands selling art, but none of them are photographs and none of them speak to him. He takes pictures of the ones he vaguely likes and sends them to both Lardo and Bitty, to which the former replies, _meh, i can paint you something better than that_ , and the latter replies, _just buy one of Lardo’s works_. Jack may not have understood a single one of Lardo’s showcase pieces, but he visually liked all of them, so the idea grows on him immediately.

Just before the end of the booths line Jack stumbles across an array of small, handmade trinkets of various uses. They’re all corny and impractical, but by now Jack’s proud of himself for having braved this day, and the crowd is thin at the end of the row, the trees above him provide a cool shade. He’s in a good mood, and the agenda was to make a practical house into a sentimental home, so he picks up several pieces and looks them over.

There are a few fridge magnets that he likes, one shaped like a maple leaf, one like a boiled egg, even a few themed around hockey. He picks them out and apart from the others and scans the rest of the table, full of hairpins and brooches and phone cases that don’t interest him. In the faraway corner, however, his eye catches on a pair of bunnies. They’re black and white and upon further inspection are holed to be salt and pepper shakers. His mind flashes back to peeks of a soft toy under Bitty’s pillow and before he’s really made a decision, he’s already paying for them and the magnets.

He doesn’t examine the choice too closely on the way back to pick up his first box and then out into the streets. He does think about it later, on the cab ride to his apartment, but it seems ridiculous even for him to be overthinking shakers. He likes Bitty, he misses Bitty, and it won’t be a hardship to have something small that reminds Jack of him. He’s just tense since his phone call with Holster, is feeling weird -- and they’d be in the kitchen, anyway. Jack can never stand in that room for long without thinking of Bitty.

He sends Bitty a picture of the fridge magnets and the towels, but not of the shakers. They go on the island in the middle of the kitchen and Jack, very resolutely, doesn’t think of why not. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


May makes room for June on a breezy Monday morning, greeting Jack early on the way from his post-run shower into his car for practice. Recovery time from the Falconers’ previous season is officially over, and aside from a few guys on vacations with their families, the ragtag group he’s been training with lately is supposed to expand significantly that day.

He's nervous. Nervous enough that he had to focus on his breathing exercises to get through the run, nervous enough that the nausea in his lower gut could build into full blown panic if he doesn't pull himself away from the thoughts. Everyone he's met so far has been fine, but they've been getting by on polite small talk and game-centric communication. There were less than ten people. Jack doesn't do well in large groups, or with new people, or with handling expectations from people who don't know him.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge the potential disaster until it strikes. He answers Bitty’s texts from when he was sleeping like he does every morning, goes through the motions of throwing his bag in the backseat and climbing up front, until his phone buzzes with a reply. It buzzes again, as Jack looks at it, befuddled, and then vibrates with an incoming call. Jack, taken aback, puts the phone down and answers the call on speaker.

“Good morning!” Bitty exclaims, sounding exhilarated and _awake_ , which hasn’t happened once since Jack’s first day in Providence two weeks before. He starts the car and pulls out of the driveway as Bitty continues, “I hoped I might catch you before you go in, I wanted to tell you good luck with the team today.”

“You’re awake,” Jack says, confused, typically eloquent. 

“Why yes I am! It’s the first day of camp and I am _so excited, Jack_ , you would not believe! Did I tell you that the Thomphsons’ youngest twins can finally join their siblings? I swear these two were four years old last time I checked, but no, here they are fully-grown and ready to wreak havoc with Diego and Bryce. If they don’t break something by the end of today I’ll be well shocked.”

He sounds thrilled by this, which confuses Jack slightly, but as he stops at a red light he concedes that Bitty also adopted a team of chaotic hockey players and treats them as his overgrown children, so perhaps it’s in his nature. “You did mention camp starting today. I just didn’t think it’d be starting this early. Eric Bittle, willingly up before nine?”

Bitty scoffs, but it’s jovial. There's the sound of metal rattling so Jack assumes he's packing things away in the kitchen before the day starts. For a moment it reminds him of pregame mornings at the Haus' kitchen, only the two of them awake, and the thought's pleasant enough to push his worries about today away, momentarily. “Chirp chirp, Jack, but getting up to shepherd these babies is not the same as getting up to be shoved around. It’s also about thirty minutes away on a good day, and we gotta be there early today to welcome everyone. I have made five different types of iced cookies and if my tiny campers don’t drop from sugar-high by lunchtime I will consider it a _failure_. They’re shaped like dinosaurs, Jack. I don’t mess around.”

Jack can’t help but smile slightly. “I experienced that firsthand, yes. Which age group are you counseling?”

“Eight year olds. Which is the middle ground between small angels and small devils, you know? But I adore them, and they call me _Mr. Bittle_ \-- how cute is that!"

Jack, frankly, still a little overheated from the run and hazy at the edges from his building anxiety, thinks that the cute thing is clearly Bitty himself. He has no trust in his filter in this situation, however, so he shifts in his seat and focuses on the road and says instead, "Yeah, sounds like my old peewee team. I like kids. Easy to be with."

Bitty hums in response, and the sound is cheerful. He's quiet for a moment, and Jack can hear more utensils in the background. He doesn't mind. They text a lot and have made a habit of Skyping regularly, but he doesn't get to have Bitty in the constant soundtrack of his life anymore. It's nice to just sit and hear Bitty moving around, easy to imagine him in the passenger seat, typing on his phone and singing along to the radio while Jack drives.

Jack has been spending more and more time since his conversation with Anthea censuring himself from asking Bitty about when they can meet. He’s been approaching it like a difficult play in the back of his mind, shifting the players around and trying to find a breach to strike through: as long as things remain unspoken, Jack feels groundless in his need to see Bitty, but as long as he doesn’t see Bitty things will remain unspoken. It doesn’t help that he has the league's schedule to adhere to, and now Bitty has camp, and the circumstances are piling, but Jack is starting to _lose his mind_ a little about not knowing when he can see Bitty next. Figure out how he feels. Kiss him, hopefully, good god.

"Sorry, needed to box all the cookies real quick," Bitty jolts him out of his thoughts after a minute, and Jack grunts in response, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm excited for camp so I lost track of myself a little, but really I called to wish you good luck. I just wanted to say that -- you know. It's gonna be alright, Jack. I know you have difficulty with meeting people, but they're your team. They're gonna love you."

It’s such a jarring thing to hear, so on point on what he’s been thinking and yet so _untrue_ , that Jack doesn’t know what to say. People don’t love Jack, not readily; he’s not easy to like and even harder to get along with, and he thinks he can count the number of people who _love_ him on one hand, maybe, if he’s generous. It’s ridiculous, really, so he says, “Bittle. People don’t… it takes them time. With me. It takes me time. I’m -- difficult.”

"We had troubles at first," Bitty counters, insistent and soft, and it makes Jack's breath catch. Thinking back to those first semesters causes him an emotional reaction that ranges from embarrassed on good days to guilt-ridden on bad ones. Bitty, of all people, should know that this day could be a _disaster_. "And. Well."

Jack waits, at the edge of his seat, although he doesn't know what for. He wants to hear it so, so badly (" _And I still love you, don't I?"_ ) but also has no idea what he'd do if he heard it here, now, before anything else, so completely out of context. The road is blurring before him and he grits his teeth to force it into focus, a faraway ringing starting in his ears.

"It'll be fine," Bitty finishes, at last. Jack doesn't know if he's relieved, if he's disappointed, can't make anything of the queasy feeling in his stomach. He’s just -- floored, maybe. By Bitty’s big heart and easy forgiveness and this thing he’s dancing at the fringes of with Jack, despite everything that happened.

Jack’s feeling choked up a bit, would do a lot to deny it if asked, but the irrefutable truth is that it helps, a little, to hear it like this. If Bitty, even after everything, can come to enjoy his company, then so could potentially his new team. “Bitty. I -- thank you. Really. And have fun at camp today.”

“I will, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says warmly.

Jack walks into the facility breathing just a little easier, head raised just a little higher. At lunch, he gets pictures of various kids holding dinosaurs-shaped cookies, and has to bite down a smile. He doesn’t show the pictures to his teammates, still feels out of place, but they help carry him through the day. The desire to be right there with them is stronger than ever, and it’s getting harder to control.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Benny, a firstline defenseman, catches Jack frowning throughout early skate the next day and glances at him from across the ice every time he thinks Jack’s not looking. It’s out of concern, Jack knows, but it does nothing to quell Jack’s fears. He hasn’t been able to fake a smile all day and hasn’t spoken more than two words to anyone that weren’t about plays. The bright side, he tries to convince himself as he glumly chugs down a water bottle during break, is that two years ago he wouldn’t have even noticed the lack of human interaction. The down side, his mind supplies of its own accord, is that it does nothing to help him change that.

Bitty’s been spending the first couple days of camp working hard, getting everything smoothly running for the summer and having late meetings with the staff at the end of the day. They haven’t had time to Skype or call, have only exchanged a handful of uncoordinated texts. Jack knew, rationally, that they’d been speaking frequently, but he hadn’t truly realized just how much he'd come to rely on it, how much it weighs on him to have it gone. 

He’s been grouchy all day, and he still hasn’t been able to figure out a solution that would allow him to meet Bitty before August. They could do it, he knows -- he’d wait two months for Bitty, he’d wait much longer, probably, and that was a somewhat concerning thought -- but he just. Wanted it so badly, it was hard to breathe some days. He’d been getting angrier at himself gradually, for missing so many chances before, and it was a useless regret that he couldn’t really control.

When they take a break before their last training session of the day, however, Jack has a few texts from Bitty that are all ambiguous and indirectly translate to Bitty wanting to call him. He walks to the corner of the room to talk, nerves spiking high at the unknown, goes fuzzily through _hellos_ and brief _how has your day been_.

“So, um,” Bitty says, and suddenly his own nerves are perceptible through the buoyant exterior, “and feel free to say no, because my mother has _gone off the rails_ \-- no, don’t give that look, you have! -- but. Remember how I told you earlier this year that she wants to invite you to Fourth of July? Well. She may’ve found out I never officially asked. Silly me. And now I’m being hounded --”

Mrs. Bittle’s answer is high and indignant and while Jack can’t make out all the words, he thinks he can guess at the general idea. His heart slows, marginally, and then picks up again at the sharp twist this conversation has taken. Bitty sighs and sounds distinctly embarrassed when he turns to the phone again and asks, “So, what do you say, Zimmermann? You up for it?”

Bitty sounds like he’s pacing, but Jack has been practicing interpreting his voice better, reading between the lines. He sounds uncomfortable with his mother’s interference and the very idea of having this conversation in her presence, but he’s certainly not unwilling. There’s a layer of yearning coloring his tone, and it makes something bloom inside Jack, a warmth that reaches his toes. It is, quite frankly, the best case scenario Jack could have never imagined. There is no possible way he would’ve said no before, not if his schedule allowed it, but right now Bitty’s voice renders him incapable of thinking of anything he wants more than to see Bitty under the Georgian sun, warm and laughing and his to enjoy in person. “Bits. I’d love to come. You know I’d love to. Tell your mother I’ll have to talk to George about taking time off but I’ll do my best, okay?”

Bitty huffs as he relays the information to his mother, who squeaks loudly enough to be audible over the phone and grows inaudible as she starts chattering about food and accommodation and Bitty supposedly walks away from her. “Well, she probably won’t calm down for a while, god bless her. Thanks for agreeing, Jack.”

He’s fond and warm and shy, and Jack’s chest squeezes painfully at the idea of Bitty thinking he wouldn’t jump on the nearest plane to see him if he could, not knowing he’s spent a week thinking of nothing but this. He wants nothing more than to shake Bitty by the shoulders, let him know the intensity with which he misses him, but the words don’t come any easier than usual. He glances around superstitiously, checks to make sure the nook is empty, hunches his shoulders and faces the big window when he says, “Bitty. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

Bitty’s air comes out in a rush of relief, and Jack hears his smile loud and clear. “Gosh, honey. Me too. Let me know what George says, alright?”

Benny keeps giving him funny looks throughout what is left of the day, but it’s probably because Jack has been told by the few people who’ve seen it that his face looks even scarier than usual when he’s deliriously happy.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He can see Bitty in thirty one days. He keeps thinking about it like he does about plays that have gone unexpectedly well, the ones that he marks in his binder and makes sure to use again in the future. This isn’t recovering with a good strategy against a difficult opponent, this is a whole new shift appearing out of nowhere in the hardest moments of the third period, when all seems lost. 

He’ll bring something nice for Mrs. Bittle when he sees her, for making this happen. When he sees Bitty. In only a month.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


George’s door is, as promised, open. Jack tightens his grip around his gym bag and raps on the frame with his knuckles, tucking only part of his face through the doorway. “Hey, you have a minute?”

George’s frowning at her computer, but when she hears him she looks up and gestures him inside hurriedly. “Sure, sure, come on in.”

Jack takes a few more tentative steps but hovers above the chair across from George, unsure. George raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, so he drops his bag on the floor and sits down, tries not to look too ashamed. “So, I, uh, wanted to ask you something.”

To her credit, she’s keeping her face entirely blank. Jack has no idea if she has any reaction to this preface and has a hysterical thought that she’d be a pro at playing poker. “Calm down, Jack. What do you need?”

“Well,” he’s aware that he’s looking somewhere past her shoulder at a blue certificate from minors, but mostly he’s trying to keep his eyes away from her face. “I know I’ve only just started, but I hope you know I don’t like to take too much time off work. This isn’t and won’t be a, uh, common occurrence. But I was hoping -- if that’s okay with you -- to maybe take a few days of vacation? At the beginning of July, for Canada Day with my family and Independence Day with friends. Uh. Please.”

George’s face remains impassive, and he takes a few moments to brace himself. When he finally meets her eyes, she cracks a smile. “You’re asking for less than six days off on two national holidays a month in advance, Zimmermann, stop looking like you just asked me to help you bury a body. Which I probably would, by the way, as that’s my job, but please don’t kill anyone. Of course you can take time off.”

Jack had no logical reason, he knows, to think she’d say no, but it was the only outcome he’s been able to imagine nonetheless. Relief seizes him, followed shortly by another bout of anxiety. “Thank you. And I’ll try to stick to the workout routine and the meal plan on vacation as well, I won't throw off the game --”

George’s entire façade fractures, and her smile grows sympathetic. “Jack, will you -- kid, everything is _fine_. This is your job, not a death sentence. You’re expected to uphold certain standards, but we’re off-season and your last two weeks here have technically been voluntary. Go home. Say hi to your parents for me. Eat some cake. Everything’s fine.”

“Pie,” he corrects, without thinking. George seems surprised so he adds, “not cake, it’ll probably be pie -- never mind. You’ll taste it sometime. Thanks again, George.”

“You’re welcome,” she allows. “And Jack -- I'm on your team, alright? Both literally and figuratively. I've got your professional back but also your back in general. I like you. This team is a good team, and I'd like you to feel comfortable in it."

Jack nods mutely. _Got your back_ hits too close to home, tiptoes too closely to what this team is not, and what Jack would be unrealistic in expecting it to be. You only get lucky enough to find one family, and Jack still has trouble believing he was deserving of the first.

But George wants what's best for him. They could be friends, maybe, if he doesn't screw things up too quickly. So he tries for a stilted smile and says, "Thanks. Again. I'll try and remember that."

He's uncomfortable and she looks like she notices as she says, "Good. Now get out of here.”

He goes to close the door after him automatically, and George’s laughter follows him to the hallway.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Bittle**

June 3rd, 2015

> what’s the july weather like in madison, ga?
> 
> (16:08)
> 
> She said yes????
> 
> And oh
> 
> Sweetheart
> 
> Your body is not ready
> 
> (16:19)
> 
> i’ll take that as ‘bring sunscreen’
> 
> (16:32)
> 
> (｡･｀ω´･｡)
> 
> (16:34) 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The nature of their tacit connection takes a definitive turn for the worse when Jack wakes up the next morning sweaty, hard, and lingering on tailends of dreams that had Bitty's naked skin in them.

Jack's Samwell policy for indulging in his sex drive was: he didn't. Jack lived every day in a rigid regimen that didn’t leave room for leniency, and pushing through his morning wood was the same as pushing himself harder on the ice. He jerked off in the shower when he had time, quick and clinical, and had sex with two girls total, both while dating. It was never a big issue and his meds kept most of it on a low simmer, either way.

As it turns out, Jack managed to repress a year of romantic feelings for a fellow teammate, and a lot of frustration about sculpted biceps and long legs and really, really short shorts. Which -- Jack didn’t know he noticed, really, until this moment in bed with his dick aching and his chest rising and falling quickly. He remembers rolling his eyes at them and thinking that Bitty was bound to get cold in the New England weather, but that was out of concern and a little spite. Or, well.

Jack presses a palm over his dick and looks up to the ceiling helplessly.

Missing Bitty is difficult enough. There’s a widening hole in Jack's chest that’s constantly aching; his palms are itching for something that’s not there, and it gets harder every day to see Bitty through a screen, feeling his emotions spill out from inside him. But now it’s like a switch has been turned on. Jack’s body knows there’s a deadline, that exactly thirty days from now his hands could curl around Bitty and pull him close, and Jack’s body _wants_.

Missing Bitty is difficult enough; wanting him, wanting to touch him and undress him and mouth at every inch of his skin, is impossible to handle.

So he gets up, and he takes a cold, counterproductive shower before his run, and he goes through the Canadian prime ministers all the way back to 1860 like he’s seventeen, like he can’t control his own body. He trains harder than usual at practice, speaks even fewer words than he normally does, gets an impressed and partially concerned raised eyebrow from Marty. When he gets home and manages a fifteen-minute Skype call with Bitty to hear about archery day at camp, he keeps his eyes trained high on Bitty’s face, between his nose and his forehead, doesn’t dare risk anything more.

But when he sleeps, he dreams of baking that pie together for Professor Atley's class, flour in both of their clothes and hairs, dreams of backing Bitty into the kitchen counter and kissing him, slow, hands slipping under the hems of his shorts upwards.

He wakes up rutting against the mattress and acknowledges mournfully to himself that even his rigid self-control will only hold for so long.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack spends that Saturday in Boston, soaking in the sun and Shitty’s company. He deflects texts all day to avoid raising suspicion and only checks his messages when he gets into his car in the evening, sunburnt and sandy between his toes, offers to Skype Bitty when he’s back home if the hour is not too grim.

It’s not often that Jack does most of the talking. Bitty seems to revel in it, folded in his desk chair and smiling wildly. Jack’s upbeat mood allows more animation in his voice, and he tells Bitty about drinking coffee on the sidewalk by Castle Island and visiting the JFK museum on a whim and eating dinner at Shitty’s favorite burger joint. He nails a deadon delivery of Shitty’s speech to three guys who catcalled a woman down at the beach, to Bitty’s enthusiastic approval (“... _and like, brahs, this is a mad violation of her rights, sleazeballs,”)_ which in turn progresses into a discussion about cultural norms and then sex-centered society and then the queer community in Massachusetts. 

Only then does he look down and sees the clock on the bottom of the screen, realizes how long he’s been talking. It's late, his jaw is sore, and Bitty's head is leaning on his crossed arms on top of the desk as he yawns into his hands. The blue glow of his screen tints his pale hair in the dark room and Jack bites the inside of his cheek, suppressing the sudden urge to reach out and touch or apologize for yammering boringly.

Bitty blinks at him owlishly, lifts his head a little to look directly into the image on the screen, and says, "You know, I didn't -- I had no idea you weren't, um. Straight."

Jack's hands drop to his lap and he stares passively for a moment. The subject hits him completely out of left field, he's still a little shocked by his own gabble, and the only thing that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is, "Eh, yeah."

This is the closest they've come to mentioning the event that led to this discovery of Bitty's. It throws Jack back rather forcibly to the softness of Bitty's shaven hair under his palm, the tender skin at the back of his beck, and he clears his suddenly dry throat. He violently does not think about the irony of Bitty saying that he thought Jack was straight when Jack's been hopelessly hot for him all week. 

"You don't have to tell me anything," Bitty continues, but he seems rather captivated by whatever Jack's face has twisted into. "Like, it's personal and scary, going into the league --"

"I don't mind telling you," Jack interrupts. There's something desperate clawing at him, even though Bitty's looking at him languid and patient. "It wasn't, uh. I wasn't actively hiding it, I don't think? No one ever really… asked."

Bitty slips into a real smile, folding his spine into the chair to sit upright. "Gee, I wonder why, poster boy of macho and leader of bros. I mean, it’s all stereotypes, and I feel really bad about it because I assumed, too, and I should _really_ know better… but no one knows? Not even Shitty?”

There were a few times, especially in sophomore year, when Jack thought about telling Shitty. He remembers curling up in his bed the night of the Cup party Parse had shown up to, shining and victorious and too sharp to touch, the night Shitty sat at the edge of his bed and told him quietly that he hadn’t expected this kind of jealous behavior from Jack. It was a bad night, and Jack’s limbs were shaking under the covers in the aftermath of a panic attack, and he thought of it then, but didn’t. It wasn’t only his story to tell, but if it wasn’t about Parse, then there’d never been any reason to talk about it.

“My parents, and therapist,” Jack says, slowly. Bitty lifts his feet up to the chair and crosses them under him, clearly content to wait for Jack to gather his thoughts. “But no one at school, no. It wasn’t --” _I’m not ashamed_ , he wants to say, wants Bitty to know so badly. _It’s never been a big deal to me, I never had the mental capacity to be ashamed of it when I was already ashamed of everything else. Liking boys becomes insignificant, in the grand scheme of things, when you can’t hold a stick without popping pills and every step you take is diminished by your father’s shadow_.

“I’m not good at -- sharing,” he settles on, eventually, swallowing hard. “I don’t, uh. It’s not so much _that_ as just having difficulty -- telling. Things. There are a lot of things Shitty doesn’t know about me, I just always felt that. Well. He was never farther than a room away from me, so he already knew everything that was really _important_. Anything he couldn’t learn by watching was -- harder. To talk about.”

Bitty's eyes are big, blinking tiredly, and Jack wants to cup his face between both hands, kiss his eyelids, brush his lips against Bitty's eyelashes. He wants to be brave enough to tell him everything, wants to form his mouth around words he's forgotten how to say. He wants Bitty to know him. It's easier to admit to himself in the dark, in the middle of the night, but it's terrifying.

"Jack," Bitty says gently, and Jack's eyes snap back from staring unseeingly at the screen. "You're not wrong. Who you are as a person isn't what you say, but what you do. You don't owe anyone anything but that. Shitty knows you. _We_ know you."

Jack realizes, suddenly, that Bitty has become unnervingly good at reading Jack's innermost anxious thoughts and putting them to rest as best as he can. It's not the first time that it's happened since they'd last seen each other in person, and Jack has no idea if Bitty's even aware of it, but it's too overwhelming all of a sudden, and Jack needs to fumble a way out of it before he breaks open and lets everything pour out. "Uh -- maybe. I don't know. But it wouldn't hurt if I could use some words, eh?"

Bitty's lips twitch, but he accepts the lighter tone without fuss, for which Jack is grateful. "You've used words just fine with me before, Mr. Zimmermann. It's all a matter of practice, as Katya always said. But, alright, yeah. Might've been nice to know you weren't -- mmm."

He cuts himself off. Jack waits, but nothing more follows, and as they stare at each other mutely Jack decides that he wants to know, that the tail of that thought has been trailing him since Christmas. "You really didn't know? Even after --" he stops abruptly, shifts lower on his bed and forces himself to continue through a cough, "Even after that party? With -- Parse?"

Bitty continues staring, mouth parted slightly, seemingly caught off guard. Jack stares back. This is uncharted waters, and Jack doesn't think either of them expected this type of honest conversation when Jack was talking about Kennedy’s Native American relations. This has been a taboo subject for longer than six months.

"I never --" Bitty clears his throat, drops his eyes low. "I didn't hear as much as you thought I did. Mostly the end of things, because he was _really_ \-- uhh. I was... worried. And, well, I guess hindsight is twenty twenty and all, but things _were_ a tad suspicious. It's just." He looks to the side and Jack follows him, the nervous twitch to his fingers, the ashen darkness in his cheeks that Jack could think is a rising blush. "I was very. Adamant with myself. That you were as straight as they come. I guess I was good enough at it that it took a lot to change my mind."

 _Like you kissing me breathless just before we had to say goodbye_ , he doesn't say, but Jack thinks it. He's pretty sure they're both thinking it. He's becoming more and more convinced that neither of them has stopped thinking it for the past three weeks, and that they're unlikely to stop soon.

So he makes a hasty decision and lets himself say, "It's getting late, but we should talk about it some more, when we meet. About why you thought that and -- and how you were definitely wrong."

His cheeks are burning, he can feel the heat in his face and his neck and his ears, and Bitty isn't any better if the squeak and the quick flail of his hands that he tries to hide are any indication. But Jack watches him slide closer to the computer, cheeks definitely flushed, and say, "That sounds. Good. Let's -- let's do that. I would like that."

Here is another thing they are now both thinking, and are unlikely to stop thinking soon: how Jack would prove to Bitty how wrong he was, over and over again.

He is -- _tabarnak_ , he is so turned on now, and whatever is showing on his face, it can't look innocent. Bitty's own face, wide-eyed and dazed, isn't helping. "Well -- well. You should get some rest. Goodnight, Bittle. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Bitty says, and his voice is breathy.

Jack hangs up and reaches blindly for a pillow to smother his groans.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack dreams of Bitty the following night, wakes up still fantasizing about him two days later. It’s snippets of visions, innocent and heady woven into each other in a way that tugs at his heart and his groin both, and it’s inescapable. He constantly feels disoriented, walking on unfamiliar ground. He’s only ever been taught control techniques to handle hockey, and so when he wakes up on Monday, he takes a deep breath and submerges.

He throws himself headfirst into practice, harnessing all of his focus into separating the different parts of his life that are plaguing him. The thing is, every moment that Jack doesn’t spend thinking of Bitty is spent worrying about the Falconers and his place amongst them. Picking and choosing things to fixate his dread about is something he knows how to do.

The lines aren’t clicking, and Jack bites around his mouthguard to avoid snapping at one of his teammates in frustration. It’s not their fault, it’s his -- his addition to the roster rattled the dynamics on the ice, their movements are choppy and mismatched at best -- and it’s eating at him, the same angry desperation that he remembers from Bittle’s first day on the team, two whole years ago: _this isn’t going to work_.

It’s their third scrimmage in full formation, and it’s not getting better. Coach Weiland orders them to clear the ice and start again. Jack pulls off a glove with his teeth to squeeze the sore muscles in his neck, and he looks across the rink to see Snowy skirting the goal posts, clearly just as irritated. This hasn’t been a good practice for any of them.

They go again. Weiland makes Marty captain the opposing team and pulls Moose from third line to play center, trying to work on their defensive offense. It’s pointless; Moose succeeds in using his build to shove Jack when he’s in possession, but the puck wasn’t making Mac’s tape anyway. They can’t find each other on the ice. Tater slides past Moose from the left and tries to steal the puck, but they’re all too stagnant, they’re not moving around enough. The puck makes it to Thirdy who shoots it and misses so terribly that he knocks his own helmet off in anger.

“It’s just a bad day,” Weiland tells them before they hit the showers, hands on his hips. Jack tries to keep his eyes on the ground, but he still catches the slant of a worried look overriding the confident tone. “You boys gotta pull yourself together, and we’ll be alright. Zimmermann, Carlson -- passing drills starting tomorrow, you need to spot each other blind. Robinson -- that shot was beneath you, and I never wanna see it again. Mashkov -- the puck was open for at least ten seconds while you just stood there. We’ve still got time till preseason, and we’re gonna work this team into shape, you hear me?”

They beat it out of there before he can demand an answer, heads bowed low. Jack takes the time to pull his gear off but doesn’t undress, lets his head knock back into the wall while the rest of the team takes turns in the showers and scuttles away. When the last of them ducks under the spray, Jack stumbles out of the room and back onto the ice.

He’s shooting pucks to empty his reeling mind when Tater finds him, still red-faced and fully dressed. He doesn’t speak when he skates towards center ice, circling Jack, which is unusual enough. Jack makes one last calming shot into the net and turns to face him. 

“Bad practice,” Tater acknowledges, taps the toe of Jack’s skate with his stick. “Very bad.”

“We’ll do better,” Jack says, stony and unconvincing, reflexive. He doesn’t think that they will. But he’s got years of press behind him, _it was a rough night but we gave our best, we’ll just take it one game at a time and push ourselves harder in the next --_

He feels responsible for the team's failures and responsible for shielding other members from it. Tater frowns, skates around in a tight spiral on one blade, and it takes him a while to answer. “We will, Zimmboni. But it not your fault. New team is always hard -- we get better.”

Jack clenches his fist and moves away to collect all of the pucks into the bucket. Tater follows him, and together they clear them away and head out, shoving the bucket under one of the benches for tomorrow's practice. Tater doesn’t say anything as he sits down on the bench right above it, leaning his feet on the edges of his skates. Jack’s not really in the mood to talk, would rather work his anger out at the gym, but Tater’s sitting quietly, waiting, so Jack hesitates for a moment before joining him.

Jack spent three months reviewing his signing options, aided by his father and his agent and Ransom's rapidly growing excel sheets. He chose the Falconers because they were the best option: it wasn't only ice time, location and money. They were young but talented, their strategy was solid, their synchronization was perfected. He watched tapes from their last playoff run on loop in the Haus' living room, and he could see them lifting the Cup in a year or two. They were _good_.

They aren't good now, and all that's changed is Jack throwing himself in and ripping a sound thing apart. He's a good player, but he doesn't _fit in_. He doesn't know if he's disappointed because this isn't what he imagined or horrified because it's exactly what he's feared.

“I had dream,” Tater speaks up, breaking the silence, and Jack whips around to watch him closely. Tater’s watching the ice instead of him, arms crossed across his chest. It’s the first time Jack’s seen him look so serious. “Wanted to play hockey. We have hockey back home, dad very big star, he wanted me playing there. But I wanted to play in America. In league. Because I’m best, and here is where best go, right? So I come to America, but it isn’t what I thought. Harder. The culture. The English -- people think you are dumb, because all big words you know are in different language. I don’t know big words in English.”

“Oui,” Jack agrees, his throat closing up. He never made it into a thing, grew up hearing English all around him, but it followed him into adulthood nonetheless. His thoughts were in French, first, and then had to be quickly translated. It made his already awkward speech slow and embarrassing, especially under stress. “Oui, I get it.”

Tater nods, face clearing a little. “ _Da. Я знал, что ты поймешь_. So America is hard, and the pressure -- everybody want you be perfect. On ice or not. And it very lonely, too. Hard to meet people. But hockey… hockey is still dream, Zimmboni. And English gets better. Culture, too -- you know Vine? Ha! I love America. I wanted to be best and I am best. In best team. It was right choice.”

Jack, tentatively, raises a hand and clasps Tater’s arm. He is absolutely horrible at emotional support. “Eh. Thank you for telling me, Alexei. You really are -- you’re one of the best players I know. I’m honored to be playing with you.”

Tater’s mouth twists beneath the sharp point of his nose and he lets out another delighted, “Ha!”, tittering quietly. His entire face changes, brightening back to normal. It’s a completely different reaction than Jack was expecting and he draws his hand back, confusion clouding his initial frustration. “Zimmboni, you good guy. I know I’m best! What I say is -- dream is never easy. Dream is not what you expect. But it not mean it not what you dreamed, yes? It’s summer. Players lazy in summer, they forget hockey. And you’re big player, you change ice. But we get better. This your dream?”

“Yes,” Jack answers automatically. He’s scrambling along to follow Tater’s line of conversation, but this he knows. Hockey is his dream, remained his dream even when life tried to physically kick him out of it. He’ll play hockey even if it means going down fighting.

Tater finally turns his head, his smile turning sunny. “So play with us. You get better, we get better. It not how you dreamed but it is same dream. No quitting.”

As far as pep talks go, it’s not the worst one Jack’s ever heard, but they never do anything to halt his running mind. This failure sits heavy on Jack’s back, he feels himself slumping under it. Every fear he’s packed into his boxes and carried with him to Providence seems closer to coming true, and the shaky haze makes it harder to concentrate on the point Tater is trying to make.

It doesn’t matter. He might be on the quick route to defeat, but he never bothered to learn how to quit. He’ll keep playing with this heavy back until it’s heavy enough to sink him into the floor. “Thanks, Tater. For the talk. But let’s get out of here -- I need to schedule a five a.m. session with Mac and Marty.”

The problem is, Tater’s words follow him at the end of the day anyway.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Practice on Tuesday doesn’t go any better, and on Wednesday Jack’s entire body aches from holding himself tensely, muscles clenching hard. His mind isn’t on the game, however, when he shuts his eyes tightly and steps under the shower stream that afternoon, his hand hovering above the knob. He could run a cold shower, he tells himself. He _should_ run a cold shower. This isn't -- he's not --

The sigh that escapes him is ragged and he turns his eyes downwards to glare at his dick, lets the water run over his eyelashes and blur his view.

It was another half day, and he left the rink sore and sweaty, looking forward to showering at home. He had a text from Shitty and a few from the group chat and one from Bitty, with a picture attached. His first mistake, Jack believes, had been unassumingly opening the picture. He trusted his ability to compartmentalize too much. 

Bitty has been spending every day at camp, and the hours under the sun were starting to darken his skin. He was posing with two young boys, ridiculous red crepe paper tied around his forehead, all three of them flexing their arms menacingly. They were grinning, however -- _Bitty_ was grinning, his teeth glinting and his hair disheveled and wearing a loose tank top that said _counselor_ , exposing tight muscles and freckled shoulders.

It was. Too much. His biceps were bulging and his chest tapered into a tiny waist and Jack could see the tight cord of muscle curving from his arm into his pec. He wanted to bite it, or to lick up the dips beneath Bitty's Adam's apple, or to kiss him until his lips were cracked not from the sun but from Jack's tongue running over them. He wanted to lie on his back and tug Bitty above him, have him lean onto his palms so those biceps would bulge right above Jack's head, where he could run his fingers over them and hold them tight while their bodies are rubbing together.

He was hard all the way home. The picture was captioned _Mr. B and his Supermen!!_ , with an additional text of, _Skype when you're free?_ ; Jack texted him back when he stripped out of his clothes to let him know that they'll Skype after the shower, but his erection followed him all the way into the water. Now, his dick twitches, once, when Jack thinks about the picture again, and he leans against the shower wall and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard, wishing it away.

The problem with seeing someone naked a thousand times in locker rooms and common showers is that by the time you realize how desperately, hopelessly, achingly attracted you are to them, you can visualize almost every part of their body without trying. Jack wasn't _looking_ , but it's been two years, and he has enough snapshots of Bitty stepping into clean sweatpants or bending to take off his socks or running his hands through his hair under the water to know exactly what he'd look like, here in the shower with Jack, wet and willing.

There's no real way out but through. Jack bites his lip and slides his hand down his stomach, over his hips, circles his cock. He closes his eyes and thinks, involuntarily, of pushing Bitty forward to lean with his hands against the other wall, his back to Jack, feet wide apart. Jack would run his mouth over the ridges of his back, kiss the water drops away, lean in until his cock would slide between Bitty's thighs, over the curve of his ass. 

His grip is tight and he jerks off quickly, without finesse, envisioning thrusting into the gap between Bitty's strong thighs. His knees tremble when he imagines the sounds Bitty would make -- low, pleased, and then increasingly higher, echoing in the shower acoustics -- and he tips over the edge violently, spurting into his fist and over the tiles.

The warm water slowly washes it all away and Jack slumps to the side, heart beating out of his chest. The shame is immediate, and Jack finds himself wishing that the stream could clean that as well.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Well that was a long shower," Bitty says, cheerfully, when the call connects. He's sitting against the headboard with the bunny tucked under his arm, oversized shirt exposing his sharp collarbones, and Jack swallows as blood rushes to his cheeks. "You had fun?"

The week keeps getting worse. Jack prays, just a little, that the ground would swallow him whole. "I. Uh. I."

His face is completely red, he can see it in the small screen displaying himself, his mouth working uselessly, and it must be pretty fucking obvious because after a moment Bitty catches on. 

"I -- _oh, God_ , okay, sorry, I -- uh. Goodness," his face is turning red as well, color rising high to his cheeks, and he tugs the bunny closer.

"I'm sorry," Jack says, and it's hollow, he can hear his own robotic monotone and he _hates_ it. _Merde_ , whatever god there is must be punishing him. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable --"

" _What_ \-- are you kiddin', I'm the idiot with the foot in his mouth, I totally wasn't thinking. It's -- it's okay though, we're sorta adults, right? It's fine."

Jack cringes subtly. Holster and Ransom had an intricate messaging system in regards to jerking off in the attic and whenever one of them caught the other in the act, there'd be shouts about it through the Haus for _days_. And they, as far as Jack is aware, weren't thinking of each other when doing it.

Bitty must not notice the emotional turmoil, is too caught up in having made things awkward and covering for it with incessant babble. "Honey, it's fine. It's more surprising that we never walked in on anyone while living in a _frat house_ , right? Although I assume you'd be smart enough to lock your door with Shitty on the other side. Not that I'm assuming you did it all the time --! Or that you _didn't_ do it all the time, I mean, I don't know -- uh --"

"Bittle," Jack cuts him off, sternly. His hands are shaking. His body is shaking. He's two humiliating sentences away from ripping the camera out of the computer. "I feel guilty enough. Stop talking. Now. Please."

Bitty's demeanor changes; his eyes narrow and he leans closer to the camera. "What? Why do you feel _guilty?_ Is this a religious thing I didn't know about?"

 _Tue-moi maintenant_. "It's not a _religious thing_. Bittle. I. You know."

"I don't know," he says. But he does. They stare each other in the eye for a few long moments and Jack can tell when Bitty gets it, his mouth going slack and his eyes widening and his hands clasping together close to his heart. The moment stretches and Jack has absolutely nothing to say to fix it.

"I'm -- I'm -- Jack," Bitty falters, and Jack waits. He looks bright red even through the webcam, shifting uneasily. "Don't be guilty. It's not -- just you. You know?"

Not for the first time, the world skids to a halt. Jack's mouth runs dry. It's not that he _didn't_ \-- exactly -- consider that Bitty might be facing similar difficulties. It's that they've been skirting around each other for almost a month now, and Jack knows what's there because he _kissed Bitty_ , and Bitty _kissed back,_ and they've been talking almost every day. There's intent, there, where before there was blind stumbling, and just the other day they almost agreed --

But knowing Bitty thinks about him to get himself off is -- different. It's more. It's making it difficult for Jack to form words because his brain is currently both on overdrive and entirely too slow.

"Euh," he says, finally.

Bitty's hands form tight fists on his thighs, but he stares straight at the camera, challenging. "Now, I'm gonna tell you about what Marianna did at camp today. And we're not gonna talk any more about all that, or what could happen when you finally get your butt over here, or how I feel about you choosing to wear a shirt _this darn tight_ after _just getting out of the shower_. For our own sake. To get us through this."

Some days, the affection Jack has been holding inside him threatens to break through the dams, burst right out of him. This is one of those days. He manages a stilted nod and a firm, "Right. Marianna. Go on," and spends the next three minutes forcing himself through an increasing number of vivid fantasies featuring Bitty's hands.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**SMH Boys ( & Girl)**

June 15th, 2015

> _Shitty_
> 
> ARE
> 
> YOU
> 
> READY
> 
> ???? 
> 
> (19:30)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> we literally don't like either of the teams tho 
> 
> (19:31)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> uh, dude, the bolts EASY
> 
> we hate the hawks and we like underdogs 
> 
> (19:31)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> Not the Hawks!!! 
> 
> (19:33)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> dude 
> 
> (19:33)
> 
> _Lardo_
> 
> Aholes someone load skype who cares who's playing 
> 
> (19:34)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> LET'S WATCH SOME FINE HOCKEY 
> 
> (19:35)
> 
> _Dex_
> 
> I'm watching with my family 
> 
> but have fun! 
> 
> (19:36)
> 
> _Chowder_
> 
> i'm watching with farmer :((((
> 
> and nursey's at a thing with his school friends 
> 
> (19:38)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> BOOOOO 
> 
> (19:39)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> [ _stormtrooper_traitor.gif_ ] 
> 
> (19:40)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Lardo threatens to cut ties with him if he doesn't make popcorn for the game. "You don't have any of the microwave shit, anyway, Zimmermann, just buy the corn seeds and put them in a pot with a little oil. If you tell me your nutritionist doesn't let you have a little oil for the Stanley Cup I'll come kick them myself."

It turns out to be a mandatory requirement for the entire group. Jack settles on the couch with a bowl of homemade popcorn and a can of beer, the pregame ads running mutely on the flat screen and his laptop open on the coffee table. Ransom is already throwing kernels at his unseen sister and Holster is pretending to try and catch them across a split Skype screen.

Bitty's frame is only an empty couch with a heaping popcorn bowl until he climbs onto it a few minutes later, sitting down crossed-legged. "Coach has apparently spread the hockey infection to a few friends, so he went to watch the game with them. Sorry to disappoint, boys, it's only my commentary tonight."

Shitty howls, loudly. " _Empty house, hell yeah!"_

The group chatters ceaselessly, Shitty relaying the details of his mother’s latest feminist advent to everyone’s delight. Bitty tells them about his own mother’s fight against the local knitting shop, and then it’s a landslide of increasingly ridiculous family moments until it’s a few moments to game time. 

The cameras are moving quickly on the rink, catching owners and coaches and benches in the quiet before the game begins. Lardo, unexpectedly, raises her beer to catch their attention. Ransom bangs on a table three times, and Lardo says, "A toast, gentlemen. To our very own bro. May this time next year find you in that smelly arena, quivering with nerves."

Holster whoops. Ransom yells, spills beer all over himself. Shitty lets out an unintelligible string of exclamations that begins with _my brother!_ and ends with _this motherfucker, I'm telling you!_

Jack has no real way of knowing, but he thinks Bitty is looking at him right in the eye. He's raising his own glass, smiling, and says, "To Jack." Jack feels it all the way down to his bones, rattling him from the inside.

First period ends 0-0 and Jack slumps back onto the couch. Shitty is mooning over Patrick Kane and Ransom is yelling himself hoarse ("Bolts can still recover from this!" "Give it up, man, it's not going into a seventh.") Second period has the Hawks leading 1-0, and by the time third rolls around, Holster is trying to coax Ransom out of the fetal position.

The Hawks win. Shitty throws all of his remaining popcorn on the television and Bitty takes a picture of the screen, laughing shrilly. The six of them put the commentators on mute and turn to break down the game themselves, Jack leaning over the table to gesticulate as he talks about Crawford's shutout with abandon.

"It almost feels like we're in the Haus, y'all," Bitty says when they settle down. His face is fond and he's spread over the couch, legs parted. "Except with _much_ better furniture."

Ransom grumbles from between his hands, but lifts his eyes enough to look at them. "Jack, you gotta promise me to make it next year. I can't do this again. I'll even buy all the ugly Falcs merch, I swear."

"Just don't go against the Sharks, for Chowder's heart," Holster agrees.

Jack has had high expectations nonchalantly handed to him his entire life; _gonna break your old man’s records,_ or, _this one’s going big_ , or, _make us all proud_. It’s never done anything but start a tremor in his hands, made him hold himself tighter. That week at practice hasn’t been as catastrophic, but Jack can’t shake the feeling of ineptitude, of being a mistake. Now, though, there's something about the same sayings that don’t prickle his nerves, don't kickoff an uproar in his ears. It's a wish without expectations; they don't care, really, if he wins or loses -- they just think he can do this. They believe in him without pinning his worth to how well he actually does. 

It's an idea he struggles with every day, and he doesn't always find it in himself to believe in it. He does today, however, so he raises his own empty beer and says, "Here's hoping."

They all log off, eventually, waving goodbye. Shitty makes him promise to call tomorrow before sliding away from the desk, exposing his genitals to the camera. Bitty stays last, his face still twisted from the up-close image of Shitty's balls, but he leans his chin on his fist when they're left alone and says, somewhat shyly, "Hey, you."

It's weird. It's different. Jack has spent so much time with Bitty in the company of the team but never after graduation, never when they're _this_. He tried not to react any differently to Bitty's voice during his game, tried not to look at him too long, but he feels the way things are different acutely. All his attention is attuned to Bitty and his every action is amplified over any background noise. Eighteen days; it's starting to feel like a mantra.

"Good game," Jack says, and knows his voice is cracking and his eyes are crinkling fondly. Good hockey makes him loose, pliant, and he wants to wrap himself in Bitty's legs on that couch and never let go.

"Yeah, good game," Bitty agrees. They're both grinning. They say nothing, for a long time, and the silence isn't suffocating.

Bitty sits up, in the end, drawing back those legs to curl them under him. "You've got a.m. practice tomorrow, don't you? It's getting kinda late."

"Yeah. The other guys definitely watched the game too, though."

"Sorry, are you saying you don't mind being tired? Excuse me, but who are you and what've you done with Jack Zimmermann?"

The chirp is gentle, and Jack lowers himself, cushions his head on the armrest. "You're excused. I'm just enjoying your company."

Bitty's whole body droops, and his eyes are soft as cotton when he lifts the laptop up to his lap. "Alright, honey. Nothin' wrong with that. Let me tell you about this conversation I had with a Twitter follower who bet on the results of the game."

Jack falls asleep on the couch, doesn't remember doing it. When he wakes, Skype is still open, and Bitty's asleep in his bed, his own laptop lying beside him.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


And then the following week brings forth the unthinkable: the Falconers get better, fast. 

The two weeks after their disastrous scrimmage are spent mostly on ice, slipping back into their muscles and their movements in them, learning each other like new limbs. The lines aren’t altered drastically and there's still the draft to change things up, but the rhythm that Jack thought he’d upset seeps back in between their legs, catches them by the ankles and pulls. Tater throws his arm around Jack every time they step off the ice, and he doesn’t say it, but the slap on Jack’s back sounds like _I told you so_.

WSN predict the Schooners as favorites for the Cup while CBS and NBC put the Pens ahead. The team gathers in the lounge every evening break to replay tapes from the previous year, so off-season that it’s on their free time. They take notes on napkins and brochures and every paper they find lying around, and know that everybody’s thinking it: if they play their cards well, they could steal this as the underdogs.

“But so many things could still go wrong,” Jack tells Bitty on Skype that weekend, forking the sweet-chili salmon they made together earlier in the evening. “We haven’t even played one real game yet -- we’re counting on short shifts of high scores against Seattle, but stamina in real-time is hard to predict and I’m worried our second D-line won’t hold up as well. And that’s assuming I score as much as the coaches calculated, which definitely might not happen. Plus McDavid could be a real gamechanger after the draft.”

He falls quiet after that, taps the fork against the side of his bowl just to make a noise that isn’t his voice. On screen, Bitty’s chewing around his own salmon, and the crease in his forehead deepens gradually the longer Jack speaks. 

“Jack,” he says once he finally swallows, and it sounds like a warning.

Jack taps the fork again, eyes lowered. “What?”

Bitty sighs, pushes his plate away and wipes his mouth on his wrist. The oven door behind his shoulder is tipped open, letting the heat out, and Jack busies himself with it instead of looking up into the camera. “Jack, you just spent ten minutes contradicting yourself every time you said things seem to be looking up. You’re fishing for reasons this might not work -- and I’ve seen your preseason Hulk form in full affect, this is not it. What’s going on?” 

Thirdy’s fist bumps every time Jack nets. Guy’s eyes on him during practice. Tater’s unfailing confidence. “Nothing. Everything’s fine, I told you we’re getting better.” Nothing’s really fine. It’s Saturday and Jack was up half the night, staring at his ceiling and counting his slow blinks. 

Bitty’s gaze flicks up to stare at the camera beneath his knitted eyebrows. “Yeah, you said, and yet you keep talkin’ like -- like you’re sitting around waiting for everything to come crashing down. To get taken away. And I just need you to know that -- it won’t, alright?”

Jack shoves another piece of salmon in his mouth to avoid answering, but Bitty’s willing to wait, cleaning off his hands on a discarded towel and never looking away from the screen. Jack chews, swallows, sighs, considers. Bitty’s still waiting.

“It just feels like I haven’t earned it,” the words fall from his mouth without permission, the building pressure in Jack’s chest expanding and pushing them out, anxious blocks of thoughts without explanation or background information. It’s weeks tumbling out in a moment. “It doesn’t feel real. I go to the rink every morning and I skate with the team but it’s not. They’re not _my team_. But they are. And when we were bad I thought --. But now that we’re getting better -- I don’t know, Bittle. I haven’t _proved myself_.” 

He plays well and they smile at him, cheer for him. They’ve got faith in him -- but when he fails, what then? And the better they get the more insistent they become at building the team, at playing cards during downtime and going out for drinks on free nights, but he _can’t_. Letting them in feels like setting himself up for freefalling off the cliff. He could handle losing, maybe, has been readying himself. He can’t handle disappointing another team.

Bitty’s look is sad, but his face is tense. “Things aren’t going to break in your hands just because it’s _your_ hands.”

It’s -- _câlisse._ Because they _are_. But he’d rather lie through his teeth than admit it. “I’m just being pragmatic, Bittle, you’re making this into a big deal. Good streaks inevitably don’t last forever and it’s better to prepare for them --”

“No, you listen here, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty interrupts, and he leans forward on the table, chest braced against his forearms. His eyes are narrowed, sharp, and Jack looks away instinctively. “You _deserve_ this team, you hear me? If anyone’s gotta prove themselves, it’s them to you -- prove they’re worthy of your choice. And I ain’t talking about just hockey. This is your team now. You deserve to be on it, and you gotta _let_ yourself be part of it.”

“You.” Jack purses his lips, inhales deeply. Sighs. “Bittle. It’s not that easy.”

“No. And don’t I know it. But it’s hockey, and it’s _your_ hockey. You practice so you get better. You give your all, so you have a good chance at winning. But that’s not _enough_ \-- you get to know those boys day by day so when your game isn’t good enough and your all isn’t the winnin’ goal, you’re there for each other so you can keep going. Otherwise you’re gonna snap. That’s the game. You know the game better than anyone.” 

Jack has never been on the receiving side of Bitty’s stern talks. Their dynamic has never allowed for it. But he’s heard it forcing Ransom away from a second day and night of studying, pushing Shitty through the LSAT, talking Dex down when he’s in fits. Bitty will run circles around his own issues, but he’ll tear himself to pieces to take care of those around him. It sinks in for Jack, then: Bitty will do whatever is necessary to support Jack, and Jack will have to be very attentive to make sure he’s supporting Bitty right back.

The anxious bubble in his stomach has been spreading since that scrimmage, growing pungent and dangerous as the weeks went by. But Bitty’s words remind him of Tater’s, throw him back. In May of his junior year he was looking at his face reflected at him in his third captain nomination plaque, wearing a banquet suit and shiny eyes. It wasn't his best year, but that square of glass felt like twenty pairs of hands pushing him up, like Tater deciding to believe in a guy he's known for less than a month, like Bitty insisting that he’s worth people’s faith. It's a dangerous feeling. 

But two years ago, on Eric Bittle's first day on the team, Jack thought _this isn't going to work_ , and it did. It’s what Tater said, finally making sense: Bitty made Jack's collegiate hockey career look different than he'd dreamed, but in the end it was exactly what he dreamed of. He was the best thing that happened to Jack’s game, even if it started with fainting spells and dramatic spins. Bitty was willing to fight, but it started with Jack fighting for him.

The bubble doesn’t recede, but it wanes. It’s always better when he finally exhausts himself and concedes into talking to someone; the anxiety is always dimmer in the lights of reality, its edges slipping over the flat surface of concrete truth. Usually it takes a long while until he grabs Shitty or picks up the phone to call Anthea, but now Bitty’s there, and Jack’s self opens up to him easily. He’ll probably never stop feeling guilty for it, but it feels good to have that anchor.

He looks up to meet Bitty’s eyes, grateful and cautious and determined to book an hour with Anthea now that he’s admitted a problem. He knows what she’ll tell him already -- that this is, as she warned him, his way of self-sabotaging because he’s overwhelmed by living his dream. But he also knows this is just like the end of junior year. If he wants the Falconers to keep winning, it can’t be about him as a singular player; he has to let them in. Has to believe the dream is his reality now. Has to make this, them, his home. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“I know I am, sweetheart,” Bitty smiles back, and it’s firmer than usual. “You guys taught me that. Got your back, you know?”

Jack lets himself smile, very slowly. He does.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The next day Jack gets to the rink early and eats breakfast with Marty, Thirdy and Guy. They talk about their kids, mostly, and he drinks his protein shake in silence, but Thirdy’s hand on his elbow on the way to morning skate feels less heavy than before. On Monday during conditioning Jack clumsily asks Snowy about his girlfriend, and gets an animated story of wedding-planning for his efforts. He tells this to Bitty over Skype late at night, and Bitty’s starry-eyed demand for more details (“Everybody loves weddings, Jack,”) makes something burn bright in his chest.

On Tuesday Jack spends most of his time during mobility drills remembering that same starry-eyed look, and can’t seem to shake it for the duration of the day. He drives home feeling jittery, hands tapping irregularly on the wheel. 

The snapshots start unpredictably and follow one another in short intervals. They’re sensations he had no idea he'd preserved, physical memories only now resurfacing for reasons he can’t pin down. In the garage, parking the car, he abruptly remembers Bitty burying himself in Jack’s chest when he saw his new oven, warm tears staining Jack’s shirt as he crowded close to him. In the doorway he remembers waking up on Faber’s roof, Bitty’s head pillowed on his shoulder, his hair smelling clean and his body wrapped in Jack’s jacket. During dinner he remembers Bitty in his #15 jersey in their last game together, huddled in for their last celly before the forthcoming loss.

He let him go so many times. By Wednesday Jack has a regular lunch seat at the nook, he unpacked four of his discarded moving boxes, and he's listened to every voice message Bitty’s sent in the group chat three months back just to hear his voice. He thinks of Bitty constantly, is almost consumed by it, but he still hasn’t let himself inspect his feelings too closely. He’s almost afraid of what he’ll find if he does.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Shitty and Lardo take over Jack’s Wednesday afternoon with an invitation to an online game of _Words With Friends_ that he’s apparently not allowed to refuse. He fails to come up with a way of telling them that his Wednesdays are reserved for Skype calls with Bitty, so his compromise is calling Shitty during morning break to ask if they can invite Bitty to join. Snowy, sitting at his side and biting pieces off a banana, looks at him curiously. Jack hopes his artless stammering isn’t accidentally gossip-worthy in some way.

Playing games was generally prohibited in the Haus because all of them are either insanely competitive, entirely deranged, or some scary mix of the two. _Words With Friends_ seems relatively safe, as far as Jack can tell, so he closes his google window less suspicious than he was when he opened it and RSVPs the invite on his way home. It might turn out to be a mistake, of course -- Shitty is certainly deranged, Jack is notoriously competitive, and Bitty and Lardo are each a different, but equally scary, combination of both.

“Shitty also found an online version of Catan,” Lardo tells them later that afternoon, idly drawing on Shitty’s forearm with a blue pen at the bottom corner of the screen. They’re taking their turns on two different laptops in Shitty’s bedroom, using Shitty’s one for joint Skype. Shitty’s mustache is taking up most of the frame and is twitching as he contemplates his next move on his turn.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack maintains gruffly, because Lardo's tone of voice suggests that she considers them salvaged, and that Catan is some kind of threat. “Holster is a sore loser.”

Bitty stifles a snort from his own square on the screen, busy braiding a friendship bracelet out of yarn as he waits for Shitty to finish his turn. “We were all there for the Clue disaster, Zimmermann. Don’t talk to us about sore losers.”

All in all, it goes rather well. Shitty finally finishes his turn, grumbling about how _bitchtits_ not counting as a word is inherently sexist. Lardo elbows him in the ribs, impressively hard by the looks of it, and dumps the pen into his lap to take her own turn on the other laptop.

“So -- doing anything interesting this week, fellas?” Shitty stretches his inked arms over his head, midriff _Spice Girls_ shirt riding up to reveal his nipples. “And I urge you to think of something real fuckin’ good, because Lards’ got commissions to work on and I’m ditching Boston for Cape Cod tomorrow. Your bros gotta live vicariously.”

Jack curls his fingers into the sofa cushion on his lap, bites his tongue, doesn’t say _I’m going to Georgia in ten days_. It’s an instinct that shouldn’t be there -- he hasn’t told anyone but his parents about the trip, and it doesn’t even answer Shitty’s question. But it’s there, like a reflex, like something he can’t help: _ten days. I’m gonna see Bitty again in ten days. Mon dieu, seulement dix jours._ It feels like he’s about to burst. He really has been losing it the past few days, and not just of anticipation. The idea of being with Bitty again in person and not knowing how to act around him is terrifying.

“I’m going to a party with friends from camp on Monday,” Bitty answers, surprising Jack out of his thoughts. He looks up, frowning, but Bitty still isn’t looking up at the camera. His fingers are weaving threads together in complicated formations, pink and green and yellow. 

He’s mentioned this party once or twice before, but he was never committed to going. Shitty, who is always in favor of partying and has lately been complaining about turning into boring adults, lights up like a mustached, maniacal Christmas tree.

“What party! Tell me everything, young grasshopper -- what booze. How much booze. How bitchass shitfaced will you be on a scale of _extremely_ shitfaced to _partying with the male nurses while you’re being stomach pumped_ shitfaced -- and remember, this _is_ a test, so consider your answer carefully.”

Bitty looks appropriately horrified, abandons his bracelet to raise his eyebrows at Jack like, _are you responsible for him?_ ; Jack isn’t, never was, and never intends to be -- the idea is frankly alarming. “Definitely not anywhere on that scale, Mr. Crappy. More like somewhere between _unfortunately warm_ to _just drunk enough to showcase my tried and practiced Single Ladies routine_.”

Jack knows that song. They’ve talked about it before. He’s never noticed until now, but the eyebrow raise, the salute during the Stanley Cup, the Beyoncé song -- he doesn’t know how he picks up on when Bitty is talking directly at him in the company of others, but somehow, he does. Like a whole language they’ve perfected during these past five weeks. Jack still remembers their first phone call, his chest tight and the words getting stuck in his throat, and there’s something comforting about it. They’ve adapted to one another on this platform, despite the lingering awkwardness, despite everything that’s still unsaid. It seems likely that talking face to face again after so long will be just as awkward at first, but will get much better with time.

Shitty is lecturing Bitty on the amounts of underage drinking required of him as a college junior when Lardo finally finishes her turn. She lifts her head back into frame, picks her pen up from Shitty’s lap and returns to the abstract shape growing up towards his elbow. Bitty leans closer to the camera to take his own turn, just as Shitty stops ranting to look at his screen and yell, “ _Motherfucking fuckballs -- how the shit is_ squaloid _a word and bitchtits_ isn't _?_ ”

Jack loves his friends, but ten days really can’t pass quickly enough.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**SMH Boys ( & Girl)**

June 26th, 2015

> _Ransom_
> 
> DUDE
> 
> DUDE DUDE DUDEE
> 
> (10:34)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> BittyYYY
> 
> (10:34)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> MAZAL TOV YA MOTHERFUCKER
> 
> (10:35)
> 
> _Nursey_
> 
> yo, it's about time
> 
> (10:35)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> YOUR COUNTRY SUCKS PEOPLE BUT AT LEAST YOU GOT THERE!!!!!!!
> 
> (10:36)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> (੭ ˃̣̣̥ ㅂ˂̣̣̥)੭
> 
> (10:36)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack checks his phone after morning skate to find over two hundred messages.

The majority of them are from the group chat -- there's a lot of yelling and smilies and the weird pictures that move, but as he wipes his damp face with a towel and scrolls aimlessly back, he can't find the source of excitement. The draft isn't until the evening and it's too off-season to be about hockey, but as far as Jack knows it could be a particularly exciting episode of one of Holster's reality shows that have everyone hooked.

He drives home without reading, unlocks the front door and kicks off his shoes in the doorway. The rest of the messages are from his parents. Five texts from his father, in excited French, and three from his mother: a web link, and, _I know you don't read the news, but you should read this,_ and then, _it was hard fought._

There are no messages from Bitty.

Bitty goes to bed much later than Jack, wakes up after him, and for the past month Jack's woken up and left practice every morning to at least one text from him. It's part of the morning routine now, and -- well.

Jack doesn't think before he dials the number.

Bitty picks up after one ring, and his voice sounds wrecked. "O-oh -- hi, honey! I didn't expect a call."

Jack leans against the kitchen counter, tries not to smile too widely at getting to hear Bitty's voice so early in the morning when he usually has to wait until the evening for it. "Good morning, Bittle. I take it I didn't wake you?"

Bitty laughs, but it's weak. "No, no, I... Must be camp hours getting to me. I was definitely awake."

"Good. I wasn't sure. I guess I just called because you --" saying _you didn't text me_ sounds like too much, too soon, too honest, and Jack stumbles on his tongue, "I -- had hundreds of messages and if I read them all I'll never get anything done, so I guess I thought I'd. Ask you, uh. You always know everything, with the Twitter."

Bitty sucks in a breath but then he's quiet for a few long moments. Jack's heart, gratuitously, starts beating faster.

"Oh, Jack," he says finally, very softly, and whispers, "They, um. It passed. The -- the ruling, in court."

"What ruling?"

"Oh, you -- well, I guess you don't keep up with history if it ain't ancient," Bitty huffs, a hint of a stronger chirping edge to it now. "It. The -- the same -- the same-sex marriage case. Uh. They won."

Jack frowns. "In _Georgia_? I thought it's only legal in about ten states, how'd they swing that?"

Bitty's voice grows softer again, and it's a little wet. "No. Jack. It passed this morning in the Supreme Court. It's legal nationwide."

Jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

"Which, I mean," Bitty carries on, clearing his throat. "You're Canadian so it doesn't make much difference to you, I guess, you guys have like, a decade on us --"

"Bitty," Jack cuts him off. His heart hasn't slowed down and his hand is clutching the marble counter tightly. "I live in the US. I plan to stay in the US. And _you_ live in the US and -- I don't know what to say. This is amazing, Bits."

Bitty chokes on a badly contained sob and there's the sound of sheets rustling, like he pressed his face into them. "I know. It is. I've been up all night. I can't believe -- I mean, I could get married in _Georgia_ , Jack. In my home town. Not that I -- would _want_ that, or that I'm thinking of _marriage_ right now, good Lord --"

"But you could," Jack says. His voice is softer than he intended and his chest is fluttering and Bitty's not thinking of marriage right now but Jack _one hundred and ten percent_ Zimmermann _is_ \-- "That's. How'd your parents react?"

Bitty takes a sharp breath and lets out a laugh that is decidedly fake. "I don't know. I've been too scared to leave my bedroom so I've been hiding in here, scrolling through my accounts. Trying to convince myself that anonymous support online would compensate for any awful things they might say, you know?"

Jack doesn't know, not like this, and he feels guilty with it. "It might not compensate for it, but it does matter. People celebrating this matters. And your friends -- the team --" Jack stops, then. "I'm not saying that they could ever replace the support of your parents, or -- or --"

"But I'm not alone," Bitty says quietly. "That's. No, you're right. It does matter."

"Yeah. And they might not say anything awful, right? You don't know."

"I don't," Bitty agrees. He sounds grateful. "I'm gonna find out. I'll call you during the draft, alright? And thanks for that, Jack."

Jack doesn't particularly feel like he did something to be thanked for. The truth is, he's fumbling through it, raw honesty leaking through the trembles in his body. "Any time, Bittle. And -- I really am, uh. Happy. It's great news."

The image hits him like a freight train coming out of nowhere: they could get married in a field behind Bitty's parents' house, the Georgia sun low in the sky, a hurdle of small blonde relatives humming about. They could stand there, in front of god and the people and everyone who've ever made life hard for Bitty, hand in hand, exchanging rings. He could watch the summer tan on Bitty's forearms in the home where it belongs, while he leans in to kiss him and promises to love him forevermore --

Jack collapses into a vacant chair, breath escaping hard. Jack's always been all or nothing. It shouldn't be this much of a shock to realize that when it comes to this, he's all in.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


James first shows up at the rink two days after the draft, and he spends most of the morning in the GM office with a burly agent by his side. Snowy and Tater loiter on the outskirts of the managers' hallway throughout those hours, steadfastly pretending that they aren't trying to sneak looks at the new rookie.

"Let it go," Thirdy rolls his eyes for the third time that day when they all lace up to go on the ice. The coaches are starting to look at them curiously, probably realizing that they're not at the center of attention today.

Snowy, predictably, tunes him out. "We gotta come up with something good, Tater. Zimmboni is fine but it hasn't caught on so well. What's the kid's name -- Fitzgerald?"

"Don't call him kid, kid," Marty threatens, but there's no heat behind it. Jack tightens his laces and looks to the edge of the bench to share a helpless look with Marty. There's no stopping them now. Jack’s seen that frenzied expression on his former D-men’s faces too many times.

"Fitz. Gerom. Geraldy?" Tater steps onto the ice and turns towards them, skating backwards as he thinks out loud. "Need good nickname, real name too long for Russian."

Guy steps after him, stick balanced across his shoulder blades, and frowns deeply. "You guys have stuff like Vinogradova and Kuznetsov, what are you talking about?"

The discussion is cut short when a whistle blows, and Marty herds the rest of them onto the ice, patting Jack's shoulder with feeling. Practice runs as smoothly as it mostly has lately, like gear trains finally slotting into place. Jack can spot Mac and make a pass with half a glance, Guy and Benny are clicking into well-oiled defense, Snowy's stopping pucks faster than they can shoot them. Preseason hasn't even started yet but their team is looking in better shape every day, and when Thirdy manages to get a puck past Snowy's shoulder, clean into the net, he skates into Jack in an unnecessary one-armed celly that Jack's too exhilarated to slide out of.

Spirit is high in the locker room, loud laughter and ass slaps resounding. Marty kicks Tater mid-cackle to yell, "Team lunch, captains' orders," which starts a shouting match on the matter of the best lunch spot for twenty large hockey players who are considered local celebrities.

Jack's sitting in his cubby and tugging out his pads when George appears in the doorway, completely unfazed by noise levels or nudity. James is trailing cautiously after her, ginger hair sticking up and thick eyebrows drawn low. 

"Boys," she says, and the clamor dies out, curious eyes trying to peer behind her. "This is James Fitzgerald. He's your new team member, and I trust that you will _behave_."

She's looking directly at Tater when she says this, and Tater's grin, impossibly, grows wider. "Sure, boss! All morning we talked about new name for James. He is already one of us."

Snowy reaches for his towel and walks past Guy to shake James' hand, breaking the tight line forming in front of George like a barricade. "I'm Snowy. Tater has good intentions, like, ninety percent of the time."

The roundup on the new guy is quick after he shoves his hand out to return the shake, looks nervous but smiles nevertheless. There are shoulder claps and introductions and polite inquiring, and it's all friendly, but Jack is overwhelmingly glad he got to meet the team gradually. He can't help but picture himself freezing under the amount of attention.

When Marty and Thirdy finally push everyone back, Tater strips off his damp undershirt and drapes his arm across James' shoulder with gusto. The kid looks wary, and Jack knows the feeling. Tater is a giant with a kind heart who doesn't entirely comprehend the force in his own hands. "Don't worry, rookie, we find nickname soon. Now, you do lunch with us."

James looks over his shoulder at George, who smiles and tactility retreats from the doorway. He turns back to Tater and nods quickly, first at him and then at Snowy. "Okay. Lunch. I can eat."

They all gather around a large table in a family-owned place downtown and inhale sandwiches. Tater tells increasingly convoluted stories with half-chewed bread in his mouth that almost get Thirdy to spit out all over Jack; Moose, who hasn’t said more than three sentences to Jack since the beginning of the month, asks about his history degree; Snowy chirps James until his face matches his hair while Mac snaps pictures for blackmail. It's a fun lunch, all in all, and Jack finds himself feeling comfortable without trying for the first time, cracking deadpan jokes that have mostly Marty snickering. It's not team breakfasts in the dining hall, not late night conversations in the Haus, but for the first time Jack feels like, with time, maybe it could be. Maybe he deserves to find not only one family, but two. It could start with a fun lunch.

That is, until they get kicked out shamefacedly. Tater insists to anyone who'll listen that it was entirely James' fault.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


So, the way things ultimately went was like this:

Jack woke up at four a.m. every Sunday of senior year, thought it was because Bitty being taken off his line would throw their championship shot. He dragged Bitty to study together in the library for two semesters, thought it was because losing his scholarship would mean leaving the team. He initiated coffee at Annie's and conversations about American singers, thought it was because Bitty provided a healthy distraction from the pressure of his career. He sat out in the sitting room at one in the morning, looking up blindly and trying to breathe through the cacophony in his head, attributed his lack of surprise at Bitty climbing up to join him to team bonding.

Jack smiled every morning at Bitty's rumpled hair and thought he found it funny, he caught himself staying down at kegsters and thought it was because it was his last year, he chirped Bitty about Twitter and baking and Georgia and thought, that's what teammates do. He recognized that he was happier every day, more settled than he ever was, and it took him a year and a half to notice but he chalked it up to the Haus being his home and those people becoming his family.

Jack let his arms drop from around Bitty at graduation and turned to watch him leave, his heart pounding in his ears like an upcoming panic attack, and he thought it was because, well, because he was leaving Samwell, leaving his friends behind, and the future scared him out of his mind.

When he’d been younger, Jack's father had told him that he looked at the world through tunnel-vision. He had arranged everything in his life to point him towards hockey and hadn’t noticed when the world had rearranged itself, had explained away the shifts that didn't fit the only way he’d known how. His existence was equivalent to sitting through a high-pitched noise, like the constant surrounding hum of electronics; when the ears adjust, it’s unnoticeable -- but it’s still there. Bitty was always, always there.

With his father’s hand on his shoulder, the noise of the graduates drowned out, and the hum he never knew was there rose to volumes he couldn’t ignore. In that moment Jack realized that he’d been looking at the championship and graduating and signing, when all along he’d missed everything in his peripheral vision that hadn’t fit in, had missed bumping ankles under coffee tables and making time in a tight schedule to see someone and the way his heart beat when one person entered the room. When he thought of turning back with his father and leaving this behind, leaving without seeing Bitty one more time, his chest tightened around his lungs, choking.

Jack'd been happier for two years, and it hadn’t been because of hockey.

Jack let go of his rumpled tie and ran.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Team meeting runs late the night before Jack’s flight to Montréal, and he gets home at midnight, heavy-lidded and weary. It doesn’t deter him from finishing his packing straight away, however, leaving his gear by the door to throw a duffel bag open on the bed before doing anything else. Packing never takes him long -- expertly minimalistic and efficient to avoid checking baggage on short flights -- but right now it’s the only task that grounds him, makes the rest of this week seem more real. He was vibrating all through the day; when George finally dismissed the meeting and patted his shoulder to wish him a fun holiday, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Just over an hour flight to YUL. Three days with his parents. A three hours flight to Atlanta. And then, after the longest six weeks in recent memory, he’ll see Bitty again.

The ringing of the phone catches Jack unprepared while he's shoving underwear and socks into travel bags. It vibrates against the bedside table, screen facing down, but Jack doesn’t need a caller ID -- there’s only one person who would call him at this hour.

“Jack!” Bitty greets affectionately when Jack drops the clothes and presses the green button. He’s louder than Jack’s anticipated, so he pulls the phone away from his ear momentarily just to adjust to the volume. “Hon, you picked up! But ‘s late, what’re you doin’ awake?”

Bitty's voice is slurred, deeper than usual, vowels sticking together. In a flash it reminds Jack of Spring C: his hands curled under Bitty's strong thighs as he carried him home, Bitty's laughter tickling below his ear, smelling of summer sweat and vodka. It's another memory he shelved away, but it hits him now in full force. Three days, and then he gets to hear that in person.

“You’re drunk,” he intones, instead, because his throat is closing around everything else he wishes he could say. He already waited this long. It seems ridiculous to feel so eager to spill everything that’s been gathering in him until now, so close to what he’s been waiting for, even if his entire body is humming with need.

Bitty giggles in response, and Jack guiltily savors every moment he manages to make that happen. “Sure am, mista! Been to that party with my campmates. I told you ‘bout that. Well, ‘ve drank a _lot_ of that sugary lemon thing and lemme tell you, it ain’t no tub juice, but it gets the job done.”

“Where are you now? Are you still with the other counselors?”

“Nope,” Bitty says. Jack strains to listen for background noises, and thinks he can hear Bitty’s flip-flops hitting the pavement as he walks. “Walked home. Gonna sit in the backyard a bit -- ‘s hotter than blue blazes, can’t go inside yet. Wanted to talk to you, though.”

He doesn’t sound dangerously drunk, so Jack tries his best not to worry, swallows back the first three sentences that come to his mind. The fourth seems nonchalant enough. He rolls the socks into balls and reaches out for his camera bag. “I’m right here. How was your night?”

“ _Fun_. We danced. I like ‘em alright -- we’re not exactly _friends_ , but they’re nice. ‘s usually much lonelier in Madison over the summer. Oh, wait, maybe I should sit down on the stairs. Promise to keep me quiet so my mama won’t wake up?”

Context. _Crisse_. “Euh. Yeah.”

There's a muffled thump that sounds like Bitty sat down, and Jack runs a hand through his hair, heart beating exponentially faster.

“The stars are so beautiful tonight,” Bitty drawls quietly, sounding distracted. He has the same faraway quality to his voice that Shitty always had when smoking and talking about something like the proportional length of his fingers to his face; the tone of someone speaking aloud without realizing it. “They’re so -- bright. Are they always like this? Gosh, isn’t it amazing that we’re looking up at the _same stars_ even though we’re so far away? Are you looking at 'em right now, Jack?”

He’s definitely not, standing under the ceiling in his bedroom, but suddenly he desperately wants to be. The idea of anything that’d make this distance seem shorter is tempting, intoxicating, so he leaves the camera bag discarded and clothes unfolded on the bed and walks out into the hallway, making his way to the balcony. “Sure, Bittle. I’m looking. Do you know any constellations?”

"No," Bitty says indignantly. He sounds so offended that Jack snorts as he's pushing the balcony glass door open, crossing it to lean against the railing. He doesn’t know if it’s Bitty’s drunkenness or the approaching date that’s flooding him with so much sudden fondness.

"Okay. I know some," Jack says, looking up. Ursa Major is the easiest to spot, its head and neck shimmering brightly. "Look up, search for four stars that look like a trapezoid leaning sideways. It should have three stars extending away from it. That's the Big Dipper."

Bitty hums, and it's a little musical, like he's got a song playing in his head. "Four stars, three extending. Uh huh. Ooh, maybe those?" He pauses and Jack searches for Orion next, listening to Bitty breathing. "No, honey, 'm sorry, I got nada. But that funny looking group looks like a bunny!"

"Maybe that's Lepus," Jack offers, although he highly doubts it. Bitty sounds out of it enough to be seeing bunnies everywhere, and should probably be going inside to his real bunny instead of squinting at the sky. "How about I just show you in person, eh? I think Georgia's sky should be clear enough."

Jack doesn’t realize he’s said anything significant until Bitty says, "Taylor Swift seems to think so," and abruptly cuts himself off on the last syllable, inhaling sharply just as Jack catches himself as well. 

There’s so much unspoken between them, a bubble separating them from reality, but Jack’s words suddenly anchor the fantasy into something real. They'd be looking up at the Georgian sky together soon. The sluggish mood, a hot June night that was slow and unhurried, boils and overflows; the silence stretches. A meeting that’s been set a month in advance now dawns on them both. They’re friends, they’ve never been anything more -- but six weeks ago Jack kissed Bitty and three days from now they’re going to meet again, see each other in person, spend time together. It’s no longer just a fantasy. Reality is waiting right around the corner, and the change it’ll bring with it is inevitable.

"You're really coming here," Bitty breathes out, eventually, sounds as vaguely panicked as Jack feels. 

But the panic is an undertone that Jack’s been operating with for the past few weeks. He hasn’t found the courage to face it head on until now. “I am,” he says, and can't find anything more to add.

"Jack," Bitty starts again after a minute of silence. He sounds a little sad, and Jack lifts his eyes skyward and closes them. "I r'lly -- I care about you a whole lot, y'know?"

There's something lodged in his throat, and Jack thinks, painfully, that it must be his heart. "Bits. Me too." 

Bitty makes a small noise and sighs, the air blowing into Jack's ear. "I know, I know. 's just. I care _too much_. And I. I know we _are_ something -- we're something, right?"

The heart climbs higher, clenches tighter, makes it increasingly difficult to breathe. "We're definitely something," Jack agrees quickly, leaning further into the railing. This moment seems important all at once, too heavy to be handled with anything other than utmost care. Jack doesn’t know if he trusts himself with it.

"Yeah, it felt like something," Bitty says sweetly, and Jack can picture the small smile curling beneath those pink cheeks. Bitty in shorts and flip-flops, sitting against the stairs going up to his parents’ house’s backdoor, looking at stars and high grass and darkness. "But I'm trying to l'wer my expec-- expectet--"

"Expectations?"

"That," Bitty agrees. "Because if you. If you change your mind, I can't lose you, you hear me? I care _too much_."

Jack exhales a heavy breath, crosses the balcony just to shake out his tingling limbs. He leans against the wall of the building, instead, tightens his grip on the phone. "Bitty. I'm not gonna change my mind. I wanna -- I want --"

He stops, takes another slow breath. He can hear the sound of cars passing on the road far below, can hear the faint noise coming from Bitty's end, crickets and shuffling of clothes. He breathes out, and forces through the words.

"I want to be with you," he says, plainly, chest burning. It doesn’t matter how long he’s waited, how scared he is, if Bitty has doubts. On the other end of the line, Bitty gasps quietly. "I know we haven't talked about it, I kept waiting and then I thought we were on the same page and we'll talk about it when I get there but you have to know that I do. So much. I _really_ , really can't wait to see you."

Bitty sighs again, but it's warmer this time, sets fire to a slow burning on Jack’s inside. "Me too, sweetheart. I can't believe I used to see you every day. What a lucky fool."

The burn in Jack's chest simmers, quiets down to the warmth of burning coals in his parents' fireplace in winter. Everything is too much, too momentous. Jack feels on the verge of something, and it’s so big he feels like he might not be able to contain it. "You should go to sleep, it's late and I bet you haven't drank enough water all night."

"I drank sweet tea," Bitty objects, huffily, and Jack laughs shortly.

"Sweet tea won't cure a hangover tomorrow. Come on, go to bed. We'll talk in the morning when I'm on my way to the airport and you're sober."

Bitty huffs but stands, by the sound of ruffling. His voice quiets down to a mere whisper as Jack assumes he approaches the backdoor. "Alright, Captain Z, I'm going."

"Not your captain," Jack reminds, enamored, pointless.

"But you are my something," Bitty answers, and then he hangs up the phone.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Bittle**

June 30th, 2015

> good night, bits.
> 
> (01:13)
> 
> good night jack
> 
> three days
> 
> (01:13)
> 
> three days.
> 
> (01:13)
> 
> <3
> 
> (01:13)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Canada’s blanketed by clouds as Jack’s plane lowers, dark and heavy with the promise of oncoming rain. The air is still dry when he exits the airport, bag slung on one shoulder, and he spots his father leaning against his car in short sleeves that are appropriate for the twenty degrees outside. The huge black umbrella propped against his left leg, less so.

“ _Papa, il pleut pas_ ,” Jack can’t help but roll his eyes, throwing his bag into the unlocked trunk. He has no doubt that the large umbrella is less out of practicality and more of a dramatic prop for his father’s cabdriver posing. The man has too many retirement hobbies and it’s honestly a wonder that he hasn’t forayed into amateur theatre yet. 

“ _C'est bon d'être préparé_ ,” his father taps the umbrella against the sidewalk with a smile and gets into the driver’s seat. Their hug is one-armed and brief, bent over the center console. Jack shuffles close to the passenger door, after, and tries not to think about doing this with someone else less than seventy-two hours from now. He spent most of the flight imagining that it was heading back to the same country he’d left, and going over and over a late-night phone call that had his heart racing in his mind. 

They pull out of parking and drive down onto the highway, bypassing the city. The windows are rolled down and his father is listening to someone on 98.5 FM chattering on about the Habs’ season. 

“Flight went okay?” 

Jack hums low in his throat, eyes trained on the road outside the passenger window. He thinks of his conversation with Anthea over a month ago, of the concept of _home_. The French is thick in his throat, grounding, and even the industrial buildings zooming past them seem different than the ones in the US. "Yeah. Short."

"It doesn’t feel like it’s been a month since our flight back from your ceremony,” his father furrows his brow, signaling his merge into the A-20. “How’ve you been, son? How’re Shitty and the boys?” 

Jack’s father is so careful never to ask the wrong thing. Guilt works like that, Jack knows from experience, and the worst thing is that sometimes it does more harm than good. He knows that his father wants most of all to ask about the Falconers, cares about his son’s hockey with a passion that Jack’s anxiety could never handle, but he doesn’t. Some days having conversations overflowing with his father’s concern is an excruciating experience for Jack, his walk over eggshells making Jack feel like he’s choking. Thankfully, today Jack is too preoccupied to tolerate speaking superficial hockey with his father, so the gesture is more easily appreciated.

He talks about Shitty’s latest cries for rescue from Cape Cod, instead, even laughs a little when he tells the story of Chowder’s duel against a wasp nest in his yard. He’s never been one to talk at length and so he mentions most of the team in brief sentences, summarizing their summer. What he doesn’t mention is Bitty, and is maybe surprised that his father doesn’t ask. Jack wonders how much his father could read from his face that day at graduation, and decides that he’s better off not knowing. He’d never survive the chirping if he acknowledges it.

“I must warn you,” his father says gravely when they approach the outskirts of the city, navigating between the moving vans crowding the lanes, “maman and I are at war, and I’m recruiting you. She wants to go to a friends’ gathering tomorrow, but I’m adamant about hosting a traditional barbecue. Wayne’s been on my case since last year.”

It’s got nothing to do with Uncle Wayne, Jack knows, but rather the expensive grill his father gifted himself for Christmas that he hasn’t had the chance to use yet. “Don’t I get a say? Maybe I want to join the opposite camp.”

His father glances away from the road and catches Jack’s eye, raises an eyebrow good-naturedly. “Maman’s plan is a black-tie cocktail party with two-hundred people.”

Jack swallows, looks away. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


His mother’s waiting on the doorstep at the end of the front walkway when they arrive, and she insists on kissing both of Jack’s cheeks and running her hand over the top of his head as they traipse inside. His father is yelling, “ _Laisse ta maman aimer son fils!_ ” from where he’s carrying Jack’s bag upstairs like he didn’t officially live here until a month ago, and his mother is laughing against his temple. 

“We’re not related,” he tells her dryly, satisfied by the pleased way she smiles at him. Every time Jack comes home is a renegotiation for where he stands with his parents, a dynamic that’s been steadily changing since he left home for freshman year. He’s finally had enough of the wariness between them, can’t stomach it anymore. He wants things to be sufficiently stable to be able to make flat jokes without caution. 

“I do hope you’ve seen a mirror at least once in your life,” she says benevolently. He lets her arm wrap around his shoulders as she leads him into the sitting room across the hall, where a steaming pot and two cups are set on the coffee table, and guides him down to sit next to her on a sofa.

His mother drinks tea daily. A lifestyle coach she met in LA pesters her about the health benefits of it every chance he has, and as a result whenever they meet she makes Jack sit and drink it with her. They’ve reached a fine balance where she doesn’t try to convince him to include it in his everyday life in Rhode Island, and he doesn’t tell the lifestyle coach that she still drinks four cups of coffee a day.

Now, she fills both of the cups before she hands one to him, turns on the sofa to face him with her legs tucked underneath her. The tea’s still hot, and the steam drifting from the cup wafts in front of her face as she drinks.

“Tell me a little about Providence, bébé,” she asks, as she did about Samwell whenever he came home from school. She doesn’t want to hear about hockey, and before, Jack usually told her about classes or afternoons by the Pond. Now, Jack’s ashamed to admit that he hasn’t really gone anywhere apart from the occasional lunch with teammates, so he haltingly tells her about the traffic and the scenery, instead. About the little park he crosses during his run, about the old lady down the street who’s always out feeding the street cats when he comes home from morning skate. 

“It’s -- new,” he finishes, keeps his eyes trained on the liquid in the china. “It’s a college town so it’s not much different than Samwell, in theory, but Samwell was so small. Providence is -- I get recognized sometimes. No one said anything, but it happened a few times.” He stupidly told the boys during a group Skype call they did a few weeks back, and they almost fell out of their chairs in glee.

His mother sets the cup against her knee, looks at him carefully -- always so carefully. “But it’s working out for you, right? The city, the team? George seemed nice enough, and I liked the apartment we chose, but I just want to know for sure. That you’re doing okay.”

“I’m doing okay,” he confirms, lifting his eyes up to meet hers. It isn’t a lie, and he hopes she can tell. He’s so tired of her worrying about him. “Really, maman. It hasn’t been… easy. But I’m okay.”

He turns to put the cup down on the coffee table, still mostly full. She follows his movements, tries to duck her head in order to catch his eye again, but he thinks she believes him. “I’m glad, Jack. It’s a good sign that you feel comfortable enough to take some time off while you can, because I know from personal experience with your father that vacation is hard to come by during the season. You’re taking the entire weekend, staying at the Bittles’?”

It’s fortunate that he’s no longer holding the cup, because he most likely would’ve spilled tea all over his mother’s expensive sofa. The flush starts low on his neck and climbs up slowly, and he shoves his fingers under his thighs, hopes she doesn’t ask the wrong questions. “Eh -- yes. I’m flying back out Sunday at noon.”

“That’s so nice of you, dear. Do you two have plans? Suzanne is so excited about it, you know, she’s mentioned it every day this week.”

That is -- a horrible development he really should’ve foreseen, after their parents’ last few meetings. He can’t help but blanch anyway, eyes growing wide. “What do you mean every day -- maman, how much do you _talk_?”

His mother lifts her nose up, drinks her tea serenely. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s an actress by nature. “We have a whatsapp group, dear, do catch up with the twenty-first century. The Bittles are perfectly nice and I hope you’re planning on being a polite houseguest. Richard’s teaching your father and I about football, and it’s a very refreshing change, let me tell you.”

He almost wishes they could go back to talking about his fledgling new life, prefers the weight of her worry for him to this. Their parents talk about them behind their backs, god, it’s _humiliating._ He’s going to see the Bittles in three days and know that they’ve been hearing about him from his parents, _ostie de tabarnak_. “I -- _maman_.”

“I honestly don’t see the issue,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. “Even if they weren’t lovely, you’re staying at their house, it makes sense that we’d like to know them some. And you and Eric have grown so close. You talk regularly, don’t you?”

He wouldn’t know how to answer that even if he weren’t too embarrassed to speak. Seeing his parents and spending time with them is still difficult for him. Telling them that he’s been talking to Bitty every day, that he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin in anticipation and anxiety, that he can hardly focus on the conversation because he has a standing Skype call with Bitty in a few hours --

“Just. Never mind,” he grits his teeth, picks the cup up again to have something to do with his hands and his mouth. “It’s fine. Just don’t… just.” He sighs. He wants to tell his mother _don’t be embarrassing_ , or even, in Holster’s inflection, _be cool_. But he can’t; his mother would take that as a personal insult, too self-conscious about her only child being ashamed of his parents as it is. He wants them to stop being careful around him, but it isn’t easy to stop being careful around them first. “It’s fine. So -- papa said you’ve been volunteering again. Who with?”

It isn’t a smooth transition, but he doesn’t care. He can’t handle stressing about meeting Bitty and his parents knowing about it at the same time, would rather avoid conversation about it at large. His mother doesn’t stop looking at him strangely, but she does allow the change in conversation. He nods when appropriate and does his best to not think about Bitty.

He’s distracted until he makes an escape, either way.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It does eventually start raining in the evening. The raindrops tap against the window panes of Jack’s childhood bedroom and he watches them from the bed, the slow slide down as they meld into one another and then dissolve. The sheets beneath him are new, aren’t anything he had growing up, and they smell of fabric softener and faint bleach. He breathes in, breathes out, tries to ground himself. It’s always a little strange being back in Canada, remembering being young and feeling so trapped in this same bed. It feels like a very long time ago and yet no time ago at all.

Bitty’s the one to call for their regular Skype conversation this time. Jack answers on his phone, having never bothered to pack his laptop for this trip. He’s lying on his side and Bitty’s face is closer than it ever is when on the computer screen, a few centimeters away from his nose. It makes Jack smile instinctively. His hello is quiet, too intimate. Seeing Bitty’s face is a gentle relief after his day.

“What’s your room like?” Bitty’s eyes grow excited when Jack tells him where he is, looking quickly from side to side like he could see the rest of the room from over Jack’s bowed shoulders. “Show me around! Make it like on Cribs.”

Cribs is, apparently, a show on MTV. Jack’s only experience with MTV is when it’s playing in the background of the gym, which makes Bitty laugh harder than Jack’s eighth grade yearbook photo does, the one regrettably displayed on his desk. Jack walks around the room with his phone held at arm’s length away, tries to keep his game face on and his narration serious. It’s ridiculous. Bitty loves it, which makes it so easy to comply. He asks to see Jack’s old school notebooks and his uniform from peewee and wants to examine everything on the bulletin board from upclose. When Jack finishes his circle and comes back to the wall over and behind the bed, Bitty blinks, big eyes flickering over the screen, and says, “Honey, those sure are a helluva lot of trophies.”

Jack knows. Jack couldn’t fall asleep beneath them for years, couldn’t bring himself to store them anywhere else either. They cover a wall full of shelves and are maybe the most prominent part of the room. They always were, and maybe still are, Jack’s least and most favorite part of it.

“I play a lot of hockey,” he says in lieu of that, awkwardly, because he doesn’t know how to say anything else. It feels weird, watching Bitty’s eyes still hover over them, unsettles something in him. “My dad always said it was good for motivation. I guess it worked out, eh?”

Bitty doesn’t seem convinced, but no matter how much he’s practiced reading Bitty’s face, Jack can’t figure out what he’s thinking. His mouth is twisted and his forehead creases lightly. “I guess. Well, I mean -- obviously. You’re a bigshot now, after all.”

The words feel offbeat. He tries to catch Bitty’s eyes, maybe ask him about it, but then Bitty stretches his mouth into a wide smile and the tension in his face disappears. Jack frowns. It’s not his usual smile, but maybe that’s just Jack, misreading social cues. “I wouldn’t say _that_ , Bittle, but going pro and playing well was all I ever wanted, yes. I really am lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Bitty says right away. “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. I --. I love hockey, you know, but sometimes I need to remind myself how _much_ you care about it. How you wouldn’t let _anything_ get in the way of your game. Hockey comes first, and all...”

It should be a compliment, Jack thinks, frowning harder, but it doesn’t really sound like it. If anything, Bitty sounds as dejected as he did when Jack had to cut their first phone call after graduation short to go to the rink. He contemplates what to say, but by then Bitty sits up, shaking his head minutely, and says, “Never mind me, I’m so broody today. Must be the residue of all those drinks yesterday! Now finish showing off all the design skills you inherited from your gifted mother.”

It’s an obviously deliberate attempt to resolve the strained mood, but Jack can’t help himself in the face of Bitty’s chirping, feels the need to offer something in return to bring them back into a comfort zone. He sits down on the bed, legs extended over the edge, and looks pensively over the shape of the phone at the windows, still washed down with rain.

“I’ve got glow in the dark stickers in the shape of hockey players on the ceiling.”

Bitty’s reaction is as he hoped. “You _do not_. Oh my god. You’re chirping me, you _do not_ , Shitty would’ve found out by now and told the entire world.”

Shitty visited his house once, over break, but he stayed in a guest room and was never as interested in investigating Jack’s personal belongings as Bitty. He smiles crookedly down at the screen and says, “I do. I’ll bring you here sometime, Bittle, and then you can see for yourself. There’s one right over the light switch.”

Bitty’s breath catches and he draws his head further back, lips parting. It’s like ever since Jack said something about his feelings -- their conversation about his sexuality, his admission during the phone call last night -- he’s poked a hole in his insides and other things started leaking out. He’s been saying something overly honest every other day now, can’t ever seem to stop. 

Jack opens his mouth to say -- something, he’s not sure, maybe a distraction or maybe something more tender altogether -- when a knock on his door makes his head snap up. It creaks open and his mother steps around it, taken aback at the sight of him sitting on the bed with his phone in front of his face.

“Dinner’s almost ready, you should come downstairs,” she says. Bitty, ever the gentleman, says, _Hi Mrs. Zimmermann!_ so sincerely that Jack is flustered, immediately turns the screen so his mother can wave at Bitty. Bitty’s own cheeks are pinking, and Jack’s mother is distinctly amused when she says in English, “Oh, hello Eric! I’ve to steal him away for dinner, I’m so sorry.”

“ _Maman_ ,” Jack hisses. His mother raises her eyebrows and smiles, disappears behind the door.

Bitty’s biting back a laugh when Jack looks back down at the screen, rubbing at his neck absently. Jack thinks, suddenly, that Bitty’s skin must redden when he does that, wonders if Bitty would let him suck on the nape of his neck, and is embarrassed to be thinking this when three minutes ago he was worried something was troubling Bitty. 

“Listen, Bittle, before I go -- about earlier -- I mean, you seemed --”

Bitty waves his hand around dismissively, ducks his head so Jack can’t get a proper look at his face. “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m just fine. Really, an off day. Go have dinner with your parents. Wish them a happy Canada Day for me! We’ll talk tomorrow if you find the time.”

“Of course,” Jack agrees, frowning again, but Bitty’s waving at the screen and telling him to go. There’s not much he can do, so for lack of better options, he does.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**SMH Boys ( & Girl)**

July 1st, 2015

> _Ransom_
> 
> knock knock
> 
> who’s there?
> 
> (10:14)
> 
> _Lardo_
> 
> oh boy the poor canadian is talking to himself
> 
> (10:15)
> 
> _Nursey_
> 
> lol omg
> 
> (10:15)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> SNOW
> 
> (10:16)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> fuck it i’ll bite
> 
> snow who?
> 
> (10:17)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> snow big deal, we’re celebrating canada day!!!!!!
> 
> (10:17)
> 
> _Dex_
> 
> Congratulations that was the worst joke for the worst country
> 
> (10:19)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> I’m confused and appalled
> 
> (10:20)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> HAPPY CANADA DAY.
> 
> [ _angry_moose.gif_ ]
> 
> (10:22)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


His father gets his wish for a Canada Day barbecue. It isn’t much of a surprise; the bargaining held over the dinner table the previous night would’ve put some warlords to shame.

His parents start preparations early. Jack wakes up at the same time as them to go through the workout emailed to him by Danica, then joins them at the kitchen after his shower. His father is seasoning raw meat at the counter while his mother is chopping vegetables at the island, sipping a glass of red wine and generally ignoring her husband’s unproportionate levels of excitement. Jack pulls a peeler from the drawer, steals a few potatoes from her pile. She rolls her eyes at his father from over the rim of her glass and bumps her hip into Jack’s, a sign of solidarity.

The guests start arriving by noon. It’s still gray out, sky cloudy, but his mother opens the glass doors to the patio and arranges the food on small tables under the awning. His father mans the grill in boots and an apron, doesn’t look like the light rain registers as an obstacle to him. Jack tells his mother that they should post a picture of him on Twitter and can't help but think about Bitty.

Two dozen of his parents’ friends were invited. Jack is entrusted, in an appropriate red and white button-down, with escorting them from the door to the patio, as well as generally being cooperative with enquiries regarding his career, his recent graduation, and the plans for the rest of his summer. The job becomes remarkably easier once Wayne arrives. He squeezes Jack’s shoulder and heads straight towards Jack’s father at the grill, chirping him loudly enough to distract the rest of the guests.

There are so many people constantly moving about. Jack gets passed around between four different discussions before he successfully makes it to the table to grab a plate and pile it with food. He makes it as high as he can, knows he might not have the opportunity to refill it any time soon, and the result is comical. He sends Bitty a picture of his plate, tacks on the tiny Canada flag emoji he only knows exists because Ransom texted it to him that morning. The phone is hurriedly shoved aside when one of his mother’s friends stops him to make small-talk about the weather at Providence, but when she wanders off he pulls it out to find Bitty’s replies: _sweetpea, y'all try so hard, but that’s no real BBQ,_ and then, a minute later, _you just wait for REAL Georgian meat 乁(ᴗ ͜ʖ ᴗ)._

“Who is that you’re talking to, kid?” 

Jack only realizes he’s smiling when it’s wiped off his face as he looks up to find Uncle Mario leaning against the house’s outer wall in front of Jack, staring at him with mild surprise. There’s heat in Jack’s cheeks that means they must be redder than usual, and by the expression on Mario’s face, it’s noticeable. Jack turns the screen off and fiddles with the phone in one hand, tries to think of something to say in panic.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ve just never seen you so -- expressive,” Mario gestures at Jack with his free hand before he can think of something to say. The other hand is holding a plate full of skewers. “Must be someone special, is what I’m saying.”

Jack drops his eyes to the floor and says flatly, “Just one of the guys from the Samwell team.” His voice is even, dull, but his heart is hammering as he averts his gaze from Mario’s befuddled face and tries not to let the words sting. It’s no use. Mario doesn’t push him, lets him slink away to sit in a corner and stare at his plate in solitude, but the pressure in his chest doesn’t lighten. He’s avoided acknowledging the lying necessary to give Bitty a carve of his life, so far. He knows things won’t be as easy in the future.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The light rain tapers off by early evening, leaving the deck beneath the guests’ feet damp and shining. Jack slips into the house and out again to the back porch overlooking the garden, settles down on the steps, breathes deep. His parents have always been social people, surrounded by friends and family, so he’s learned how to shake hands and participate in chit-chat and be perfectly polite. It’s just that he can’t do it for long before the strain of holding a smile and attempting conversation drains him. All he wants in these situations is to excuse himself so he can go to sleep early and wake up to skate.

The garden looks well-maintained, his mother’s peonies a vibrant pink in the unveiled sun. Jack thumbs the camera on his phone open to take a quick picture. He sends it to Bitty before he can second-guess himself, this time doesn’t add a caption or a joke about his father’s lacking mown skills. Photography is easier than words. Jack wishes he was as good with talking.

A door opens behind him and when he turns to look over his shoulder, his father is carrying two sweaty bottles of beer and leaning a hand on Jack’s arm to lower himself onto the stair. Jack takes one bottle, makes room for his father out of habit, and they each take a sip silently side by side. 

They used to do this even during Jack’s hardest years. He wasn’t home often once he left for the Q, but when he was it was mostly for things like this: holidays, events, special occasions. He could never stand it for long, usually already heavily medicated and somewhat drunk by the time he made his escape. His father would leave his wife to handle most of the farewells as the parties drew to an end, and the two of them would sit together, wait for her. Those were the only times Jack didn’t feel like his father expected anything else of him. 

Now, Jack does more thinking than he does drinking, trails his fingers in the drops of condensation on the glass and works his jaw around the words he struggles to spit out. Jack’s known for a week and a half, since the day Bitty talked him into really trying with his new team, that talking Bitty through his issues will have to be a conscious effort. But then when it finally happened yesterday, he performed as poorly as he’d expected. Bitty was bothered by something, and Jack wasn’t perceptive enough to do something about it in time. 

He knows Bitty won’t lean on him with his own issues easily, will avoid them until they’d inevitably drag him down -- and if Jack wants something with him, needs Bitty to lie about it, won’t that mean Jack would be the thing dragging him down? With the season starting soon, and Jack’s tendency to never see past hockey, how could he put more on Bitty’s shoulders when he isn’t sure he’d be able to notice if something goes wrong?

“ _Papa, te souviens tu --_ ”, he pauses, sighs, scrapes a nail through the peeling label wrapping the bottle. Thinks about what he actually wants to say, knows that this is the only person who’d maybe have answers. “You used to tell me that I’ve got tunnel vision. Do you remember?”

His father lowers the rim of the bottle from his mouth, lets it dangle between his splayed knees. “ _Bien sûr_. You don’t let anything get in the way of your game, Jack. Once you set your mind on something, it’s done. I think that alone makes you one of the best.”

He says this so gently. His father is so _careful_. And he’s right, Jack is more sure of it now than he’s ever been, but for once being good at hockey doesn’t seem like enough. He knows the frustration is audible in his voice as he grinds his teeth and says, “But I don’t -- I don’t _see_ things. It. Hockey, it makes me blind, and I don’t --”

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what to do, now that he knows how much he missed, how much he could miss again. Doesn’t know if he can ever be a truly good friend, a good boyfriend, if he’s so easily blind to so many things. Doesn’t know if he could ask for Bitty’s heart if he’s not sure he’d be good at guarding it.

Words aren’t photography, and Jack never manages to say everything he means. He doesn’t think his father would understand, anyway. His father is still looking at him, face turned, and it’s pinched in a way Jack doesn’t know how to read. 

“I think your mistake is assuming that you’re only capable of focusing on hockey,” his father says eventually, turning his face back towards the garden. It isn’t what Jack expected, even if he’s no idea what that expectation was. “It’s a matter of choice, I believe. You spent four years earning a degree in something you’re genuinely interested in, and you forget that I’ve seen you do your work. You once wrote a five-pages essay while on Skype with your team, who were shouting about aliens -- maman thought your friend Holster was _dying_. You don’t let anything distract you from your assignments, the same as on the ice. You watch documentaries like you do tapes.”

“So,” Jack frowns, trying to read between the lines, “you’re trying to tell me I’m not one-dimensional?”

His father laughs suddenly, head shaking as it drops down. His smile is wide enough to curve his cheeks upwards and stretch his wrinkles. “ _Putain_ \-- Jack, _no_. I’m saying you’re capable of focusing on just one thing, but that thing isn’t necessarily hockey. What I’m saying is -- you just need to make sure you give things that are really important to you the same attention as the game.”

It seems so simple when he says it like that. “They call me a hockey robot, papa.”

His father’s face clears, and he looks far more serious than before. “Fuck them. You’re not, never were. You’re a Zimmermann, and we Zimmermanns go a hundred and ten percent. Be a hundred and ten percent of anything you set your mind to do, and you’ll be just fine.”

Jack studied history like he studied hockey, mind set on being _the best_ without consciously thinking of the similarities. It seemed obvious. He knows that he’s intense, has often been made to be ashamed of it, but maybe his father is right about it being an advantage. He’s not perceptive by nature, but he’s already intense about Bitty. Maybe, if he could study Bitty like he did for his degree and for the game, he could make up for it. Maybe he could learn the signs for when something is wrong, could learn the right things to say or do. Maybe Bitty could help him learn.

Maybe he could be a hundred and ten percent about being Bitty’s, and it won’t be a bad thing.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The house empties not long after, leaving behind piles of dishes and contented expressions on his parents’ faces. The night is quiet. Jack climbs up to his room silently, heavy-limbed and overwhelmed from a day of socializing and introspection, dozes off with his fingers tangled tightly in the blanket. His eyelids droop, and as he blinks the walls of his room away, he can’t help but imagine the backdrop in Bitty’s Skype calls instead; the light blue wallpaper, the striped sheets, the wooden shelves. He thinks of falling asleep in that bed, maybe, soon. Bitty’s knees curled against the small of his back and the sound of his breaths evening out with Jack’s.

He falls asleep easily, and dreams of Bitty. It seems that he’s unable not to.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The sun starts rising just before six. Jack’s room is grayly lit when he wakes up, the sharp edges of it softened, and the routine ingrained into his bones pushes him out of bed and into the workout clothes folded on the chair. He tugs on old running shoes, shoves a key from the bowl by the door into his pocket.

He’s never much liked running in this neighborhood. His father used to drive them east, closer to the nature reserves, often before dawn. They’d watch the sky brightening through the tree branches above them as they ran, listen to the woods rise to life. Now he heads north through urban streets, planning to circle into Mount Royal before heading back, and he doesn’t mind as much as he used to. Maybe Massachusetts became ingrained into his routine as well.

His mother’s making breakfast in the kitchen when Jack returns. There are egg whites frying in a pan, bread in the toaster, a speaker on one of the shelves playing music from a playlist that’s obviously hers. His father’s probably getting dressed. She squeezes his forearm as he passes her to pull nonfat yogurt out of the fridge; it’s the only body part not drenched in his sweat.

Some pop song is playing, a catchy tune that’s vaguely familiar, which he’s sure means he’s heard Bitty listening to it a dozen times. He concentrates as he cuts berries into his bowl, tries to tell the singer apart from the others. Remembering isn’t as difficult as he thought. “That’s the one from that movie, right? With the singing. Jessie… something.”

Jack hears metal hit marble, turns to see his mother’s fork dropped on the counter and her mouth slightly gaping at him in wonder. Her eggs are sizzling in the pan, forgotten. “Jessie J? You know Jessie J?”

He doesn’t, really. There was some movie with singing that came out right after graduation, and Bitty went to see it with his mother, sent him texts full of pink hearts about the main actress as soon as they left the theatre. There was a YouTube link to that song, somewhere in the midst. Jack listened to it for no reason other than that Bitty sent it.

“Euh -- Bittle likes her,” he says, because he can’t think of a better excuse than the truth. He tilts his head down and tries not to feel embarrassed about the way he’s smiling. His mother always found his aversion to pop culture entertaining. “Uh. I think. There were a lot of those songs in the Haus this year.”

Jack doesn’t turn to look at her again, picks up his bowl with one hand and wipes the sweaty palm of the other on his shirt. He can hear her plucking the toasts out behind him, folding the omelet into a plate. She says something along the lines of, “Well -- that’s nice,” but he busies himself with shoving spoonfuls of yogurt into his mouth so he can scurry along and get into the shower.

Jack puts the bowl on top of the piles of dishes from the previous night that’s still in the sink, just as his mother puts the food on the kitchen table. He jerks his head at her in passing, circles around the kitchen island to head upstairs.

He’s stopped at the doorstep by her fingers catching his wrist. He turns his head to ask her what’s wrong, comes face to face with tenderness that’s wrinkled at her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She brings her cool palm up to cup his cheek, doesn’t shy away from the damp skin or the prickle of stubble he’s yet to shave off.

“I’m proud of you,” she tells Jack. She says so in English. They almost never speak English at home, when they’re both in Canada; Jack’s never really thought of it until now. He doesn’t know if there was ever a purpose to it. “Jack, going after your dreams despite everything, and joining the league… I’m proud of that, baby. But you seem so _happy_ now. I’ve never seen you this happy.”

Jack looks at her, lost, doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t usually know what to say to his mother, when she’s not asking him direct questions, and she doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer now. It’s such an arbitrary statement. The idea that he truly seems happier, that the changes he feels internally are somehow apparent to outside observers, are simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. He’d tell her he really was happier with his own words, if he could. He can’t, though, and her hand drops to squeeze around his wrist without him saying a word.

“I’m so proud of you for being happy.”

She releases his hand, and he blinks at her a few times, then nods. She lets him rush upstairs without stopping him.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Thursday is one of the longest days of Jack’s life. 

He hasn’t expected this, because he’s no stranger to anxious waiting. Every preseason grates on his nerves, every coaches’ speech before games makes his joints ache. He used to wait for his last test result to come in before he checked how he’d done on his finals, hated the feeling of restlessness that pulled at his muscles and nestled in his bones.

And yet, Thursday feels longer than most. It’s almost as if time stops moving at the late hours of the morning. Jack comes out of the shower scrubbed clean and alert, intent on a productive day, but from then on every minute seems to stretch like chewed gum. Jack’s no stranger to this -- has learnt to occupy his mind and his hands, to push the idea of time not passing far away, but on Thursday every technique he knows is useless against the crawling under his skin.

Midnoon, he pulls one of the books he bought at the end of May out of his bag, picks a wing chair warmed by a pool of sunlight in the sitting room. It’s a memoir from the War of 1812 that he was certain will hold his attention, but the restlessness is worse than he anticipated: the chair is comfortable, the room is quiet, the book is interesting -- and yet his mind slips away every few sentences, his eyes darting to his phone in search of a text or a glimpse at the clock. Every minute that passes slowly is one less until the next morning, and his mind clings to this thought, relentless.

Jack’s paternal grandparents join them for dinner, bearing two expensive bottles of wine. He doesn’t see them often enough outside of holidays. He’s glad to spend time with them, but is still distracted all through the meal. The food looks delicious, but when Jack is anxious he lacks appetite, and he eats dinner mechanically. There’s a large clock on the wall opposite his seat at the table and his eyes keep peering at it, waiting. His mémé jokes about his eagerness to skip forward to dessert, and he digs his fingers into the cushion of his chair and carefully avoids his parents’ eyes.

It feels like forever, for Jack, but nighttime does come at last. He’s jittery, unfocused, determined to head into bed early to force an end to this day. He tells his parents that he has an early flight and doesn’t want to arrive tired to the Bittles’, is gratified when they don’t question his behavior. 

When he finally burrows into bed, however, sleep doesn’t come. 

The restlessness doesn’t ease. His focus catches on the feel of his toes against the sheets, the fretful flex of his fingers by his cheek, the creaks of the floorboards outside the room. His mind is fraught with thoughts, scenarios he’s been obsessively pushing away all day. Ways in which something could go wrong -- with the plane, with Bitty, with him; scenes in which he says the wrong thing, or something is misunderstood, or nothing is as the way he thought it could be back at school; moments where he realizes that Bitty doesn’t want this, in which Bitty distances himself from Jack.

His heart rate has been just slightly too fast all day, a panic he’s been stubbornly keeping at bay. Anthea tried to talk him out of this habit, tried to coax him into letting his anxious thoughts run their course and fade quickly, but sometimes it’s harder than others. He doesn’t want to think of everything that could go wrong in the morning. He just wants to see Bitty, at last, before he has to think all of this over.

It feels like hours, and after a while Jack figures that it may actually be. He forces himself to lie still in bed, go through his breathing exercises, keep his eyes shut against the darkness of the room. It only worsens the way he can hear the elevated race of his heart in his ears, can feel the unpleasant texture of the sheets against his exposed skin. 

Eventually the thoughts are stronger than him. His phone is set on the bedside table, plugged into the charger. Jack disconnects it, turns the brightness down, opens his text conversation with Bitty. There’s nothing in particular he wants to say, but his muscles are painfully tense and his thoughts are tangled and he doesn’t know what he wants except the ambiguous idea of Bitty, so he sends: _bittle. are you asleep?_

His thumb catches on the screen, idly scrolling the conversation history up and down. Their last texts of substance are from late the previous night, after the guests left: a nonsensical back and forth about their least favorite American states that evolved from Canada Day chirping. Jack lifts his thumb off the screen, hovers, scrolls down again. They haven’t texted at all since that morning, and Jack wonders, suddenly, if Bitty has been as antsy as he was. As eager to talk and as unsure of what to say. He tries to convince himself that the way he’s been feeling hasn’t just been his anxiety taking over.

The top of the screen catches Jack’s eye; it indicates that Bitty’s typing, and a few moments later a message pops up. _Isn’t it a few hours past your bedtime, grandpa?_

Jack rolls over to his back, braces the phone over his face. The sheets get tangled between his feet and he kicks them to the foot of the bed, types and deletes a few messages before he decides on anything to say. In the end he settles on the truth. _couldn’t sleep._ He squints at the screen for a split second before adding, _wanted to talk to you_ , afraid to create the impression that he’s only seeking Bitty’s company as a last resort.

 _Couldn’t sleep either_ , Bitty replies, and then types for a few moments more without sending anything. Jack hesitates, tries to think of something to keep the conversation going for a little longer, but then Bitty sends, _I went to bed with an alarm clock set for a drive to the airport. Is it weird that it doesn’t feel real yet?_

It’s such a simple statement, but an unshakable churn in Jack’s stomach clenches in sympathy. Moments of detachment from existence are familiar for Jack due to his disorder, and he’s grateful for seeing it written out. Bitty went to bed a while ago, but is still awake. Bitty’s up thinking about tomorrow just like Jack is. Bitty is really out there, somewhere in a bedroom in Georgia, waiting to meet Jack. It’s not something’s Jack built in his head, isn’t something that’s going to crumble when faced with reality.

It’s just past one in the morning, but the desperation pulsing in Jack’s body quickly becomes bravery, or perhaps blind determination. He puts the phone down on the mattress, turns onto his side and taps the call button, listens to the ringing tone reverberate through the quiet room.

“Jack?”

Bitty’s voice is throaty and low, intimate. Jack draws his knees towards his chest, curls a semicircle around the weak light of the phone screen by his hip bone. “Hey.”

“Is everything alright?” Bitty asks, and Jack closes his eyes, breathes deeply. His heartbeat doesn’t slow, but he feels like he can breathe easier for the first time since he came back from his run in the morning.

“Yeah,” he answers quietly, doesn’t open his eyes. Wonders if he could fall asleep like this, listening to Bitty’s voice; if he could ask, someday, in a future where everything goes well. It’s an embarrassing, indulgent fantasy, but he lets himself have it for now. “Just wanted to wish you a good night, Bittle.”

Bitty breathes out into the phone, a static noise. “Right.” He sounds unsure -- like he’s waiting for more. Jack remembers his conversation with his father the previous day, tries hard to look for whatever signs are there, and thinks: maybe that’s what Bitty sounds like when he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And you couldn’t do that over text?”

“No,” Jack says, unapologetic. Firm. “I wanted to hear your voice.” 

“Oh,” Bitty whispers. It’s a guarded sound, a private one. He pauses, briefly, and Jack misses him so much that it’s a wonder he survived this day at all. “Well. It _is_ one in the morning. You better wish me that goodnight quick, because the NHL can and will come after me if I fall asleep on the wheel tomorrow.”

Jack almost smiles, buries the bottom half of his face in the mattress. “You’re the one still up. And besides, I’ll be there to keep you awake, eh?”

He doesn’t know what Bitty hears in that sentence, but he makes a sound like he’s choking on his own spit. “ _Jack_ \-- no, I can’t deal with this right now. Give me my goodnight and get your fine ass to sleep, or so help me.”

Jack chooses not to comment on _fine ass_. He tries to calm himself, reassures himself that they’d have time to explore that further tomorrow, when they meet. It has the opposite effect. “ _Bonne nuit,_ Bitty.”

Bitty inhales, and Jack likes to imagine that he’s smiling. “Sweet dreams, Jack.”

He falls asleep curled around the phone, like Bitty is still there.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Despite failing to fall asleep early, Jack wakes up before sunrise and can’t will himself back to sleep. The restlessness at the tips of his fingers wakes him up, the same jittery sensation in his bloodstream that he hasn’t been able to shake. His entire body is thrumming. His heart rate hasn’t slowed down.

It’s the third of July, and Jack’s going to see Bitty in less than nine hours. He feels kind of nauseated.

Disoriented and groggy, Jack carries his packed bag downstairs and into the kitchen. He pushes it up against one of the counters and engages himself with making coffee for his parents and himself, pouring it into their favorite mugs. It’s more of a calming method than anything -- the coffee will most likely be too cold to drink by the time they come downstairs -- but it’s something to do. Jack pours a dash of milk into his mother’s coffee and pretends that his hands aren’t shaking hard enough to leave drops of liquid spread over the counter.

He drinks his coffee in slow sips by the big window overlooking the front garden until he hears footsteps upstairs and the sound of water running through pipes. Then he puts his mug in the sink, still half-full, and makes a fresh round of coffees that they could actually drink.

Jack’s farewell to his parents comes in the shape of a hug from his mother, her shower-damp hair bumping against the bill of his Falconers baseball cap, and his father’s hand on his shoulder as they approach the door. His mother tells him to say hello to the Bittles, insists on walking the two of them to the car. Jack thinks that he promises to relay the message, but doesn’t actually remember whatever he said. He’s still looking at her standing on the walkway as he ducks into the passenger seat.

When the car door closes behind Jack, he finds himself disassociating from the situation. He’s in the same car as he was three days ago, with his father in the driver’s seat, the same bag in the trunk, headed for the same roads they took before. Jack remembers imagining the plane he took to Canada turning back, can’t wrap his head around finally experiencing a fantasy that he’s been entertaining for days and weeks and months. He’s fuzzily aware that if he doesn’t make a conscious effort to keep his breathing steady, he might start hyperventilating. 

They’re on Autoroute Décarie when Jack’s father taps on the wheel with one hand and says, casually, “So what about them Falconers?” and Jack is high-strung enough to let out a sigh of relief, melting himself into the car seat. His father has probably been swallowing down those words ten times a day since Jack arrived, he’d think later, but in that moment he really doesn’t mind.

They talk about hockey for the entire duration of the drive. Jack lets himself get lost in a discussion about the team’s current plays and the improvements they can make, drowns himself in the familiar subject deep enough to distract himself from the beat of his heart, the sweat dripping down the small of his back, the rate of his breathing. It isn’t a very long drive, and when they make it to the dropoff point his father lines the car by the curb and pulls the parking brake up.

He turns to face Jack. Jack’s expecting a brief hug goodbye, same as always, but his father’s face is serious. “ _Hey, fils, j’veux te dire quelque chose_. About our conversation on Wednesday... You know I loved playing hockey.”

Jack swallows. It’s an understatement, and his father knows that. “ _Ouais, papa_.”

His father nods, folds his hands in his lap as he sighs. “ _Ouais_. And when you love something like that -- things that aren’t hockey, they’re gonna be hard as a hockey player. They won’t come easy. But that just means you gotta fight harder for them, because they matter, alright? Remember that. You gotta make your shot matter.”

He looks at Jack like he knows something, like he’s saying more than he is out loud. He looks at Jack like he did at Samwell, a hand on Jack’s shoulder and Uncle Mario’s words in his mouth a moment before Jack ran. He doesn’t say anything further. After a long moment during which Jack stares at him wide-eyed in complete silence, he extends a smile and pulls Jack into the one-armed hug Jack’s come to expect.

“Have a safe flight, kid,” he says, and Jack follows the motions, climbs out of the car blindly, grabs his bag and walks into the airport with his heart thudding hard in his chest.

He doesn’t remember making it past security. All Jack can focus on is his breathing becoming faster and louder, his limbs feeling too heavy for his body to carry. He finds the right gate on autopilot, stares unseeingly at the plastic benches, before making a sharp turn and power-walking towards the nearest bathroom sign.

Jack pushes the door to the handicapped bathroom open with the toe of his shoe, locks it while sliding the strap of his bag off his shoulder and letting it drop to the floor. He leans his right shoulder against the wall, hunches over the tiny sink, grips the damp edges of it and looks at his face in the small mirror. He’s pale, shaky. His legs are trembling along with his hands and he can feel the roaring in his ears that precedes an attack, the one he can usually do nothing against except breathe. He takes a deep breath, and then another one, looks straight into his own eyes; recounts the stats of the top twenty goalies in the league, and then every Cup winner in the past thirty years.

He spent all this time trying not to analyze his own feelings too closely because he could see this aftermath coming from kilometers ahead. He doesn’t know what eventually did it -- maybe it was the conversation with his father, or with his mother, or even with Mario. Maybe it was just the burden of waiting that took its toll on him. Maybe it was always bound to happen like this, right before the wait is finally over, and Jack’s treacherous mind has been holding itself together long enough to turn on him right before the horn blares.

But now everything is crashing over him at once, and he has no choice but to see it for what it is. A month and a half of talking, and waiting, and wanting, playing in his mind like the rewinding of a game tape. His father’s words at the graduation ceremony, and then Bitty’s face during their first Skype call, and in the dozens that followed it. He thought he could put it aside until he saw Bitty in front of him and just _knew_ , easy as that.

But it’s all there: his phone call with Holster, over a month ago; the goddamn bunny shakers; the empty bottom drawer in his closet, and the unused right side of his bed, and the pictures of kitchens he texted Bitty when he was hunting for apartments in April, before all of this started. Before he was aware it started.

This isn’t new. Jack takes another deep breath, scowls at his reflection. He’s backsliding over the full spectrum of the emotions he left sidelined, but this isn’t new, shouldn’t be scary -- Jack’s merely been looking away from it all this time, unaware of how afraid he was to name the emotions that’ve been growing. He’d been making future decisions with Bitty in mind, had been clearing space in his life, and he thought he couldn’t put a name to it on his own but he can, he does, and he’s not going to have a panic attack over it. He can’t decide what’s scary and what isn’t for his disorder, but he can, at least, try to control this before it’s too late.

He promised himself to do whatever it takes to make this work, and it starts with getting his heartbeat under control and not having this attack in the airport bathroom. It continues with changing out of this sweat-soaked shirt, and boarding his plane, and listening to prerecorded white noise in his earphones to occupy his mind. It ends with breathing long enough to meet Bitty. He’s going to do this, because of the bunnies and the drawer and the foreign fervency in his chest. 

He’s going to do this because he’s so, so in love with Bitty, and he refuses to let the anxiety chase him away from it.

When the announcement to his flight sounds plays the sound system, Jack takes one more breath, grabs his bag, and boards the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _on est fiers de toi_ \- we’re proud of you  
>  _On est heureux que tu sois là / Je suis heureux d'être ici_ \- We’re glad you’re here / I’m happy to be here  
>  _Liste de choses à faire / Les choses dont je veux parler_ \- To-do list / Things I want to talk about  
>  _Da. Я знал, что ты поймешь_ \- Yes. I knew that you would understand (in Russian)  
>  _Tue-moi maintenant_ \- Kill me now  
>  _Mon dieu, seulement dix jours_ \- My god, only ten days  
>  _Papa, il pleut pas / C'est bon d'être préparé_ \- Dad, it's not raining / It's good to be prepared  
>  _Laisse ta maman aimer son fils!_ \- Let your mom love her son!  
>  _Papa, te souviens tu -- / Bien sûr_ \- Dad, do you remember -- / Of course  
>  _Hey, fils, j’veux te dire quelque chose_ \- Hey, son, I wanna tell you something
> 
> oui/ouais is obviously yes/yeah; also, a broad spectrum of swear words that don’t need translation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "listen. if you’ve never gotten together with a close friend. let me tell you. it is A THOUSAND LEVELS OF AWKWARD AND WONDERFUL AND YOU’RE BREATHLESS FOR LIKE A WEEK. because you know each other and like they [jack and bitty] lived across the hall, ok, they’ve seen each other in every possible state but now they’re?? allowed to look????   
>  and listen they’ve had a million conversations over the years but now jack’s chirping him on the way back from the airport and it’s so awkward because it’s his friend jack but also jack who kissed him and he’s THERE and it wasn’t a DREAM and the transition is amazing and slow and giggly and WEIRD"
> 
> From [this](https://parvuls.tumblr.com/post/617569329016438784/like-literally-i-know-i-will-not-shut-up-about) post
> 
> this part contains the boys’ first fumbling through sex and also an understated body worship scene. i don’t really know if this is a warning or a guarantee, tbh. your call.

Bitty’s face only comes into view when the family standing in front of him moves towards the doors. Bitty is wearing sandals and shorts and a sleeveless shirt that stretches over his chest, his hair is pushed out of his face and his car key is dangling from his left hand. Bitty looks almost as speechless as Jack feels, like the air is too thin and his throat is closing up, and his eyes are wide when they meet Jack’s from fifteen meters away in baggage claim. Bitty looks exactly the same as he did every time Jack came back to Samwell from breaks or holidays, the same as he did when they lived across the hall from one another. He’s the same person, friend, teammate, except he’s also the one Jack talked to and thought of and missed every day since May. Jack doesn’t know what he expected.

His feet aren’t deterred by his internal crisis, so he only has a few moments before he’s standing in front of Bitty, blinking rapidly, one clammy hand gripping the strap of his bag. The other one is shaking by his side, and he can’t seem to figure out what to do with it.

Bitty recovers first, makes an ungraceful move forward and exclaims, “Jack!”, voice much higher than it usually is. He clumsily wraps one arm around Jack’s body, and Jack forces himself into motion quickly enough to return a limp hug that he barely registers. His heart’s beating fast like a rabid animal, and it feels like it climbed up his chest and got stuck in his airways. At least it’s no longer racing out of panic.

“Hi,” he says, before he can think of anything more appropriate to say. It comes out gruff and unnatural and then they’re just standing there, staring at each other. He’s ready to claw out of his own skin when a woman with a carry-on knocks into his back, makes him stumble closer to Bitty, who glares over Jack’s shoulder and tugs at his wrist.

“The rudeness of some people,” he huffs, still high-pitched and thickly accented, and directs Jack towards the exit. The skin of Jack’s wrist is burning and he can’t stop staring at the single point of contact, _yearning_. “I hope your flight was alright -- I was tracking it, of course, and you got here on time so I assume nothing was out of the ordinary -- but it’s a short flight, so at least there’s that -- you didn’t bring too much, by the looks of it -- oh, wait! Do you have any other luggage? Silly me --” 

“No,” Jack manages to say, still reeling at the speed of Bitty’s speech. Jack knows that Bitty rambles when he’s nervous, but this is a new record. He tries to put some words together to tell Bitty that he’s just as nervous, that he’s thrilled to see him, that he feels so lightheaded he might pass out, but they all seem to evade him. The ones he can think of are monosyllabic and curt. “No, just this.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Bitty hurries to say. They cross curb pickup over to short-term parking, and the key in Bitty’s hand swings as he marches ahead. “I’m always so afraid they’ll lose my suitcase when I fly back from school -- which is stupid, because I’m going home, so obviously I’ll have everything I need until my bags arrive, anyway -- here, I parked somewhere over there --”

They were friends. They _are_ friends, have been friends that entire school year and through countless phone calls and Skype conversations and texts, but suddenly Bitty’s right there and they haven’t exactly said anything to make them more than friends, and it’s -- weird. Jack feels simultaneously numb, awkward, off-balance and unsure of where they stand, and it’s so hard to make sense of these two different versions of Bitty. It doesn’t help that his head is stuck in an endless loop of _Bitty’s here, Bitty’s right here, Bitty is_ here _._

Bitty’s car is an old blue pickup truck that he unlocks while still talking. He pulls the passenger door open for Jack, manners apparently instinctive, and circles the front to climb into the driver’s seat while Jack takes off his cap, shoves his bag under his seat, stares at Bitty feeling unhinged. Bitty’s skin is tanner than it seemed through webcams, and the hair above his ears is freshly buzzed, and there’s a scatter of freckles over his right bicep that Jack’s never noticed before. Bitty grips the wheel expertly as he pushes the key into the ignition switch, and the muscles in his forearms flex, and -- something about it is so alluring that Jack’s inner fuse goes off with a violent clench in his stomach and a spark that goes through his chest.

He leans forward, catches Bitty mid-sentence, curls his hands around the sides of Bitty’s head and pulls him closer. Their mouths finally meet in a shaky breath, Bitty’s top lip slotting under Jack’s, and he swallows the surprised sound that Bitty makes greedily. Bitty’s hands scramble off the wheel to land on Jack’s arm, on his neck, hot and slightly damp. He exhales sharply against Jack’s mouth and tips his weight into Jack, fingers clenching and lips smacking wetly. 

They break away slowly, reluctantly. Jack’s thumb is curved over Bitty’s ear and he rubs it over the skin, darting his eyes between Bitty’s, feeling just as off-balance as before but for drastically different reasons. His heart is so loud that he’s sure Bitty can hear it, can feel it pulsing beneath his skin.

“I’m -- sorry,” he chokes out, head fuzzy, hands dropping away and into his lap. “That was rude, you were talking.”

Bitty seems just as shaken. His hand digs into Jack’s arm. “I have no idea what I was saying.” 

The moment stretches. Bitty's wide-eyed, unblinking. His lips are red and wet and parted and Jack loses concentration glancing between them and his big eyes, Jack’s fingers trembling anxiously against his bare thigh. His mouth is tingling. He planned this moment so carefully, imagined it on the plane until it was strategized to perfection, but now he’s here and nothing is as he intended and he can’t stop himself from smiling, can’t hold back a breathless, “Bittle. Hello.”

The tense moment snaps in two, breaks into something euphoric and giddy. Bitty laughs airily, the tips of his ears turning red, and everything unsaid between them dissipates into the air the longer they sit, smiling at each other inanely. Jack’s here, Bitty’s here. _Finally._ “Hey, Jack. It’s really nice to have you here.”

They remain sitting still for a long minute, ecstasy and nerves crackling over the silence, until Bitty glances down from Jack's face for a moment and something seems to jerk him out of it. He pulls one hand up to cover his cheek, starts laughing.

"Oh, honey," he says, sugar sweet and summertime warm, his free hand reaching out to twist in Jack's, unwittingly stopping the tremor in his fingers. "I was so caught up in seein' you, and this real nice _hello_ ," the tips of his ears turn even darker, and Jack, perversely, wants to lick them, "but I didn't even notice what you were _wearing_."

Jack looks down, brows furrowing. He pulled his summer wardrobe out of storage for this trip, short jeans and a light button-down that replaced his ruined one, tried not to think too much about impressing Bitty's parents lest he really does start hyperventilating. "What's wrong with it?"

Bitty's mouth tilts up in one corner, fond and amused. He shakes his head, twists the key in the ignition, and the truck revs into life. "This is payback for two years of _it's ten degrees out, Bittle, isn't it a nice day?_ If you're not drowning in your own sweat five minutes after we leave this car, I'm a jar of Aunt Judy's sweet apricot jam. We should get out of here so you can change."

“I don’t know, Bittle. Georgia’s not bad so far.”

He’s been in the state all of fifteen minutes, and he’s unequivocally talking about who’s in it. Bitty doesn’t indulge him -- instead, he shifts his eyes away and backs out of the parking lot skillfully, turning into the service road. It doesn’t matter. Jack can still see the wide smile curving his cheeks. “Save your flattery for my parents, Zimmermann.”

They drive. Bitty pulls the aux cable out of his phone one-handed, turns on a radio station that’s playing obscure country. The smile on his face turns lopsided, into a self-satisfied smirk, and Jack hides his answering smile and doesn’t tell him that he’s so ridiculously glad to be chirped in person again. It’s familiar ground. His mouth still tastes like Bitty and his hands are still unsteady and his heart is still too loud, but this, at least, is familiar. Bitty is also still Bitty. They’re still them. He hums along with the tune just to be contrary, pointedly ignores Bitty’s incredulous sounds.

When his smile is back in control he lets himself look openly. Bitty is so handsome, more so in person than in Jack’s ardent mind over those six weeks of separation. The sharpness of his jaw and chin, the upturned shape of his nose, the defined muscles in his arms. He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slides them on, and the sight of it makes Jack’s breath catch. He forces himself to steady it, swallows, then slides his hand nervously across the console to touch Bitty's thigh tentatively, fingers brushing over coarse blonde hair. Bitty blinks furiously, gets Jack's blood boiling. He wants to touch him everywhere

"Do you," Jack clears his throat and glances out his window, then back to his hand on Bitty's thigh. It’s large enough to cover most of its width. "Do you remember that conversation we didn't have? About what could happen when I get here?"

Bitty's hands tighten on the wheel so forcefully that Jack can see the veins beneath his white knuckles. He evidently remembers what Jack promised to prove. "And you want to have that conversation _now_? While I'm drivin'? Do you have some kinda death wish?"

Jack stares at his own hand and then, bravely, draws it up and puts it over Bitty's hand on the wheel. "No," he says, and means it. Right now he wants to hold Bitty's hand and kiss up his cheeks and see how hot his skin runs under the sun, wants to tell him everything he's been feeling since they last parted. But later -- "No, I just want you to know I'm thinking about it."

Bitty's blushing, probably, but he takes one hand off the wheel slowly and keeps it laced with Jack's by his side. "Okay. Me too."

They drive on.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Madison is exactly as Jack expected of a small Southern town. He’s only been to Georgia once, for a Thrashers game before they were sold -- during which he never left Atlanta. And yet. The road is bracketed by green fields and the houses inside city limits are one or two stories high, spread apart, and Jack sees more trucks during their ten minute ride through the town than he’s seen most of his life.

Bitty’s house is small, in good shape, easily recognizable by Mrs. Bittle’s figure standing by the door and waving at them enthusiastically. Bitty sighs fondly as he parks. He spent at least five minutes of the ride preparing Jack for his mother, in between Dunkin’ coffee and stealing bashful glances and good-natured bickering about driving stick-shift.

“Be careful, she can smell fear,” Bitty whispers under his breath, before he steps out of the car. 

When they left the airport Jack was too overwhelmed to notice his surroundings, but now it’s unavoidable. The heat is thick and heavy, humidity clinging to his back, to his neck, to the crease behind his knees. He follows Bitty to the front door, eager to step inside, and adjusts the bag over his shoulder to let Mrs. Bittle pull him in as soon as he’s close enough. The top of her head doesn’t quite reach his shoulders, but she wraps her arms around his middle and hugs him warmly. He still doesn’t know what to do with his hands, looks at Bitty over her head a little helplessly.

Mrs. Bittle notices none of it. She lets him go and herds him inside, her smile bigger than should be possible on such a small frame. “Jack, it’s so good to have you! Welcome to Georgia! How was your flight? And the drive? How are your parents?”

“Oh, euh, good, good. All of it,” he answers, makes sure to smile at her politely. He’s met Mrs. Bittle before, but he’s still always surprised by how much Bitty takes after her. The Bittles lead him out of the doorway and into the kitchen, a bright room that Jack recognizes from the background of several Skype calls. The curtains are the same as Bitty hung in the Haus and the air smells like baking. “Uh, how are you? And Mr. Bittle?”

“The car wasn’t in the driveway,” Bitty interjects, leaning on the island behind Jack. “Did Coach go get the meat?”

“You know how your daddy feels about his cookouts,” Mrs. Bittle sighs. “I know you wanted to go with him, but he said he didn’t want to waste Jack’s time. Rick will be right back, Jack, and later we can all sit down to have a nice dinner before we go watch the fireworks. I’m so sorry he’s not here to greet you.”

“That’s really alright, Mrs. Bittle,” he tells her, distracted by Bitty pulling his phone out of his pocket and aiming it at them, a smile tugging on his lips. Jack’s been on this side of that phone enough times to know what it means. “Twitter, Bittle, already?” 

“I’m getting you accustomed to the publicity,” Bitty quirks an eyebrow. Mischief looks good on him, and the mere meters between them are a distance so tangible that Jack can almost feel it. He’s so tired of the distance. But Mrs. Bittle squeals with delight when Bitty tells her to pose with Jack, so when she puts her hand on his shoulder, he tugs the Falconers cap off his head and smiles at Bitty chastely. 

“Say _hat-trick_!”

The photo is fine. Mrs. Bittle’s hands are on the crook of his arm, his shoulder, and she looks excited to be there. Jack’s smile is small, tentative, but there’s color in his cheeks and he isn’t grimacing at the camera. He thinks that maybe if Bitty was to take every PR photo for their upcoming season, things would look a lot different for Jack’s image.

Mrs. Bittle moved away and is now beaming at Bitty’s phone from over his shoulder. “Honey, that’s a lovely picture. Send it to me so I can show it to Aunt Connie and to the Zimmermanns. Jack, you want one on your camera with Dicky?”

Jack raises both eyebrows at Bitty, purses his lips to keep a straight face. The chirps about Bitty’s mother’s nickname for him lasted for two and a half weeks after the last family weekend. Ransom unsuccessfully tried to bribe Lardo to change Bitty’s name on the roster. “Oh -- only if Dicky wants to.”

Bitty flushes pink, shoves his mother away. “Oh my god, _stop_.”

Mrs. Bittle ignores him, holds out a hand in a way that leaves no room for argument. Jack’s camera bag is safely cushioned on top of his clothes, so he easily reaches inside and hands it over to Mrs. Bittle. All that’s left is Bitty, who sets his phone down on the island counter and shuffles closer to Jack, glancing at him nervously from the corner of his eye. They leave a respectable amount of space between their bodies, but Jack can’t help but stretch out an arm and hook it loosely around Bitty, curling his fingers in the back of his top. It’s not enough, but it’s all he’s allowed right now. He’ll take it.

“You boys are so handsome,” Mrs. Bittle gushes, fumbles around with the settings on the camera before snapping a few photos one by one. “What a nice camera, Jack! I’m sure these will turn out great.”

She hands the camera back, and Bitty quickly moves away, Jack’s fingers dropping away from his top and into the air. The back of his neck is red, and Jack’s still looking at it when Mrs. Bittle exclaims, “Oh, Dicky, how rude of us -- take Jack to the guest room, show him where to put his things. I’ll call you down when your daddy gets here.” 

Jack looks away from Bitty with difficulty. Bitty swipes his phone back up and mumbles something under his breath, his hand finding the strap of Jack’s bag and tugging on it to get him to follow out of the room. 

Bitty leads Jack towards the stairs, a measured step and a half before him as they climb up. It brings his ass directly into Jack’s eye level, and the flex of it in the shorts is mesmerizing, makes Jack’s mouth dry and his blood rush dangerously. He averts his eyes and distracts himself with the photos decorating the walls, all the way up the stairs and into the second floor’s hallway. They’re predominantly pictures of Bitty growing up, and Jack wants to pause, to take a better look at Bitty in elementary and middle school, but the real Bitty keeps casting looks over his shoulder like he’s making sure Jack is still following. Jack hurries up, and reminds himself to come back for it later.

The guest room is the last one in the hall, right across from the bathroom. Bitty pushes the door open and keeps it that way, still casting fleeting looks towards the hallway like he’s waiting for someone to barge in. 

The room isn’t large, but it has a double bed, a storage bench at the foot of it, a chair by the window and an old dresser. The bed’s already made, and Jack’s just placing his camera on the bedside table when Bitty heaves Jack’s bag off his shoulder and deposits it on top of the dresser, rapidly explaining that, “The towels on the bed are yours, of course, and the sheets are all new -- mother wanted to put chocolate on top of your pillows but I told her that she’s ridiculous -- which she is, but some days a simple Southern woman must believe she runs a Four Seasons, I suppose --”

It’s the first time they’re alone out of the public eye since May, and the inexplicable clumsiness that plagued them at the airport takes hold of them again, unrelenting. Bitty’s still standing by the window, and Jack is closer to the door, and there is a whole room between them. He thought it would be easier once they’re both in the same place, but it’s so much harder. He feels like he did on his first day in Providence, stammering through a phone call that he was waiting for all night; desperate to get this right, but completely clueless about how to achieve that.

“So,” Bitty says, jerking his arm slightly to gesture at the room. “This is it.”

Jack nods, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets, and Bitty nods back. Neither of them says anything. It’s so painfully uncomfortable, and Jack doesn’t remember ever seeing Bitty this socially ungraceful, doesn’t remember a silence that Bitty couldn’t fill. This is weird for both of them. Jack wants to march over and hold Bitty close, wants to tell him every emotional and panicked thought he had on the way here, wants to tie whatever it is between them down so that it can’t slip away. Jack _wants_. He thinks that Bitty wants, too, but neither of them moves.

Bitty swallows. Jack can see his Adam’s apple bob, the muscles working in his neck. Jack’s hands twitch in his pockets as if trying to reach out and touch, but Jack doesn’t even know if he’s allowed. Bitty’s eyes are fixed on his, wide and unblinking, though he still doesn’t make any motion to come closer.

“Bitty,” Jack tries, finally. It comes out hoarse, more of a whisper. Bitty’s fingers wring together and he glances quickly at the open door behind Jack before he, at last, takes one step forward.

They’ve kissed before. It shouldn’t feel so impossible, shouldn’t feel like a gap that Jack has no idea how to bridge, but in the car he was acting more out of desperation and frenzy than courage, and now --. Bitty’s mouth is less than three meters away. Jack takes a step of his own forward, but they’re still too far apart.

Bitty lets his hands drop to his sides, wipes them on the flesh of his thighs. 

“We should --” he starts, and then shakes his head once, closes the distance between them in three long strides. He doesn’t reach out for Jack, but their faces are so close together that Jack can almost feel his breathing, can smell the faint traces of sunscreen on his skin. Jack’s eyes drop from his eyes to his mouth, and he thinks that if Bitty was brave enough to come close, maybe Jack can be brave enough to kiss him again. Bitty’s mouth opens, a plump rosy curve right beneath the dip of his cupid’s bow, and he says again, “We should --”

He never finishes that sentence. Mrs. Bittle’s voice, coming from downstairs, calls out, “Boys! Rick’s home! Dicky, bring Jack down to meet your daddy,” and the two of them spring apart so fast that it’s almost as if she bodily pushed them away from each other.

“Go downstairs,” Jack finishes for Bitty, after a tense second. Bitty’s bright red, not quite meeting Jack’s eyes, and Jack’s valiant attempts at keeping the wistfulness out of his voice inevitably render it completely flat. “We should go downstairs.”

Bitty nods, the same sharp movement he did before, and keeps a wide distance between them when he rounds the room to get to the door. He gestures for Jack to come along. Jack closes his eyes, allows himself one long calming exhale, and then he tracks Bitty down the stairs.

Mr. Bittle stands out between his wife and son. He’s taller, broader, his hair a rusty shade of red that matches the color of his thick mustache. Jack, in a moment of ludicrousness, thinks that Shitty would adore that mustache -- right as Mr. Bittle offers a wide palm for a handshake and says, “Zimmermann, ain’t it? Nice to meet you, son.”

Jack shakes the hand, tries to keep it short and firm. Bitty stands by his father’s side and eyes their hands like he’s afraid it might turn into an arm-wrestling match.

“It’s a pleasure to be here, sir,” Jack tells him. Where Bitty and his mother both have expressive features, are people who wear their hearts on their faces, Mr. Bittle is a lot more closed-off. Jack isn’t exactly skilled at reading people as it is, so he squares his jaw and mostly concentrates on forgetting that the Bittles have been gossiping with his parents for months, and vehemently not looking like someone who’s either sweating nervously or angling at kissing the man’s only son.

Mr. Bittle’s mustache twitches. Jack’s not sure, but he suspects that there might be a smile under it. “Call me Coach, everyone does. You settled in alright? We were a bit worried about what this weather might do to a Canadian. Y'all are delicate, I hear.”

Jack doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he settles on, “Oh, uh… yes,” blinking profusely. Bitty is coloring furiously and hissing, “ _Coach_ ,” which seems to have no effect whatsoever on his father. 

“Rick is only joking,” Mrs. Bittle clarifies, slipping her fingers into the crook of her husband’s elbow. Jack swears he hears Coach mumbling _at least he ain’t a Yankee_ under his breath, but he deems it better for everyone if he ignores it. “We really are so glad to have you here, Jack, Dicky has been telling us so much about you. Now, dinner should be at about six -- Dicky, we’re leaving for Heritage Park right after, so you boys be ready for that. Do y'all have plans for the afternoon?”

Jack chances a look at Bitty. He still looks shaken, shuffling in place uneasily. Jack doesn’t fully understand what happened upstairs, and while he’s aching to be with Bitty in private, now doesn’t really seem like a good time. He reassures himself that they would have enough time later, maybe after the firework show, and tells Bitty, “Actually, I thought you could show me around. If you wanted. I could bring my camera.”

Mrs. Bittle declares it, “A wonderful idea! Dicky, be sure to show him Mrs. Callahan’s flower garden,” and the look Bitty gives Jack seems almost grateful. Jack doesn’t know what he’s done right, is kind of terrified of getting something else wrong, but resolves to bring it up somehow once they’re out of the house.

“Sure,” Bitty says, voice pitched to sound upbeat in an unnatural way. He moves away from his parents and pinches the ends of Jack’s ironed sleeves, tugs on them meaningfully. “But don’t let Coach’s chirping fool you as anything but truth -- you’re going nowhere ‘till you change that shirt. Hyperthermia isn’t a joke, you know.”

  
  
  


* * *

They leave the Bittles’ house on foot, turning left down the road. The streets are all more or less the same: modest houses, paved driveways and tidy front lawns stretching out as far as the eye can see, flanked by dense trees. It’s still stiflingly hot out, even though the sun is no longer at the center of the sky, and Jack is grateful for his cap and the thin cotton shirt Bitty forced him into. He’s sure it’d be stained by sweat before long, but there’s no arguing that it’s a vast improvement. 

“There’s not really much to see,” Bitty explains, kicking the toe of his sandal at the sidewalk distractedly. “Most of the shops are concentrated by the highway -- not that there are many of those, either, mind you. Everything in walking distance is… mostly this, honestly.”

He waves a hand at the residential neighborhood they’re passing through. He sounds almost apologetic, like he’s embarrassed about the lack of exciting views, and it’s just -- baffling for Jack. Bitty must know, he presumes, that Jack is only here to see him -- that he couldn’t care less about the scenery, that he wouldn’t mind sitting inside for three days if it were in Bitty’s company. He _must_ know. But Bitty is toying with the striped case of his phone, and something unfamiliar is pulling at his face, and Jack suddenly isn’t as sure. The distance between them is more tangible than ever.

The strap of the camera is wrapped securely around Jack’s neck, and he thumbs it as he carefully considers the right words. 

They’re usually good at talking, Jack thinks. Ever since they both came back from summer break the previous year, talking to Bitty has been the easiest part of Jack’s days -- and they’ve become so good at it, at Samwell, and then even better at it over this summer. Jack doesn’t know why they’re no longer talking, why it feels so impossible to tell Bitty things he would have said without hesitation only yesterday. He would’ve thought that the physical proximity would ease things. Anthea thought so, too.

A red Honda rumbles up the road in front of them. There’s a woman in a tiger-print jumpsuit leaning her elbow on the driver’s windowsill, a cloud of cigarette smoke blowing out behind her. Jack lifts the camera up and captures a photo of her, the bright reds of her car and her hair and the jumpsuit, blurred by the smoke. 

“I can’t believe you think there’s not much to see,” Jack says impetuously, turning his head to watch her drive off. 

Bitty stops by his side and bursts into delighted laughter, short, surprised fits that shake his shoulders and transform his entire face. Jack stares at him, startled, tries not to grin too widely in self-satisfaction. He intended to say something meaningful, but it’s hard to regret the end result when Bitty’s usual bright smile is back in front of Jack, Bitty’s cheeks puffed and his eyes crinkled.

“In the eye of the beholder,” Bitty says. He’s still smiling when they resume their walking. 

The urge to make Bitty laugh again, like a patch over their floundering, is addictive. Jack finds himself searching for mundane things to take pictures of, hoping that Bitty will knock their sides together and chirp him ruthlessly, an action that Jack’s body remembers like it’s been tattooed into it. He catches a cat napping in a strip of sunlight on top of a mailbox, stops to frame three birds tittering on a telephone line high above them. Bitty seems to think all of this hilarious, and his spirits are much higher when he’s chirping Jack like it’s a sport. 

Four streets from Bitty’s house, Jack crouches down to take a picture of ivy vines weaving around a white picket fence, and Bitty watches from a few steps back, amused. He says, “Unfortunately, the ironwork in small town Georgia doesn’t live up to Samwell’s glory.” Jack remembers studying the rails and gaits at school for a month before his midterm, but he didn’t think that Bitty would remember something this trivial. Jack stands back up, turns his head over his shoulder to watch Bitty smiling.

“This is the splendor of the South, Bittle,” he counters, completely deadpan. He’s pointing his index finger at a lion door knocker proudly displayed on house number five. It’s implausibly hideous, and Bitty snorts out a laughter when he follows the finger.

Reassuringly, it’s easy to at least be with Bitty like this. They used to take so many walks back in Samwell -- to classes and Founders’ and the dining hall, to Annie’s and the Pond and to Faber. Oftentimes they opted for the longer route to wherever they were going solely because they were deep in conversation. This isn’t different at all, really. Maybe they still aren’t talking like they have been this summer, but at least the ice has broken and they’re back to what Jack’s used to from school. The setting is new, but everything else is the same; the only thing that’s really changed is Jack, perpetually figuring himself out too late into the game.

Bitty takes them through unpopulated streets without a clear destination in mind. They trade light conversation about their week, Jack’s visit to Canada and Bitty’s escapades at camp, which turns into stories of the younger campers and then to tales about Bitty’s school years in Madison. They pass unremarkable houses on their way and Bitty tells Jack offhanded anecdotes about the town, entertained by Jack’s bewildered responses.

“Oh, see that over there? That’s Donna Ashburn’s house -- in ninth grade her party was busted for underage drinkin’ and whisper has it her folks sent her to a _convent_.”

“Is that a thing people still _do_?”

“Might be. They sure are religious. But I saw her shopping for milk last month, so I wouldn’t put all my eggs in that rumor basket.”

Or, at a fork in the road between two streets: “Look at that monstrous thing, right around the corner -- it’s tradition to tell the rookies on the football team that it’s haunted by a family who died there, dare them to break in.”

“Did someone really die there?” 

“Oh, Lord no, that’s the Porters’ house. Probably a nasty hearsay by their neighbors to make them fix the paint job. Nothing that exciting could ever take place in Madison, honey.”

The back of their hands brush together as they walk, and Jack watches their shadows meld together into one long figure on the concrete. There’s something achingly intimate about it that makes him too embarrassed to take a picture while Bitty can see, even though he wants to. He knows that this is all they can have right here, in public, but being so close to Bitty without being able to reach out makes him crave for more. It makes him want to bring Bitty up to Providence: show him his usual running route, the river, take him to dinner at nice restaurants downtown. Makes him want other simple things, like walking the streets just as they are now, knowing they’re both headed back to Jack’s apartment at the end of the day.

“What are you thinking of?” 

Jack’s steps falter. He brings the camera up to his eyes so he can have a moment to blink the thoughts away, takes a photo of a cloud that looks like a horse. “Uh, nothing. Dinner, I guess. What were you saying about the Reids?”

Bitty knits his eyebrows. “Nothing exciting. They built a small jetty on the lake off their property and the Nunns’ youngest daughter fell off it last month. Were you thinking about dinner because you’re hungry? We can go back and fix you something to eat --”

“They have a lake in their backyard?”

Bitty slows his steps as well, lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he squints up at Jack. “Well, you know, it’s not much of a lake, really -- I’d personally call it a very large puddle if mama wasn’t so afraid of Carrie Reid’s wrath. Do you… want to go see it?”

Jack shrugs, and Bitty adds, “It’s not private property, and I bet we can get you some of those bird photos you like so much. They like to nest in those trees.”

They’ve been walking aimlessly for a long time, so Jack nods; Bitty looks around, considering, before crossing the street. They cut through a thick plot of woods, trudging over dry ground and shriveled twigs while ducking to avoid low branches, and after a few minutes the vegetation breaks and makes way for another small street. There’s only one or two houses on it. Bitty skirts the fence of the one closest to them, heads straight down along the side of it until the glint of water is visible in front of them.

It’s a relatively small pond, maybe a hundred and fifty square meters. Its surface is dark with moss, and Jack can clearly see the tree line marking the end of the properties across the water. It’s quiet, though, far enough from most of the main streets that all he can hear is birds trilling and wind ruffling through leaves.

“Oh,” is Jack’s intelligent response to this unexpected slice of nature. There is indeed a small jetty to the right of Bitty and he, jutting into the lake. Jack takes a photo of the water licking at its beams, and then another of the different green shades of moss near the banks.

“Thought you’d like it,” Bitty says. “Not to belittle the _splendor of the South_ , obviously --”

“Chirp chirp, Bittle,” Jack cuts him off, but he doesn’t stop smiling. Crouches down and leans one knee on the ground to balance himself better as he tries to focus on a bird not quite close enough to capture. Chickadee, or maybe Blue Jay -- he doesn’t know a lot about birds, can’t tell the gray from the blue from this distance. 

Bitty lets him fiddle with the camera. His elective silence on whatever it is that’s wrong is still disconcerting, and Jack promised himself to at least try, so he says, stiltedly, “Bittle, I think we should -- talk,” and doesn’t even get to any kind of point because he can see Bitty shrinking from the corner of his eye. It makes Jack freeze, tensing his own muscles in a visceral defensive reaction. He hasn’t seen Bitty curl this way into himself since early in his freshman year.

A moment passes. Jack takes a few bad pictures of the elusive bird, tries to force his muscles to loosen one by one, and then Bitty says, “I’m sorry about before,” suddenly. It’s mostly out of nowhere. Jack lifts his eyes from the viewfinder and frowns at Bitty, silently urging him to continue. 

“In the house, when we --. It’s not that I don’t want…” He sighs, turns to look at the lake. The sun on his skin makes it look almost orange, tinged with gold, and Jack snaps a quick closeup photo of his profile before he can overthink it. His eyelashes are pale strokes framing his dark irises, the bridge of his nose an elegant curved line, the hair strands at his forehead curling with sweat. Bitty briefly quirks his lips at the camera, allowing Jack to finally relax, but doesn’t comment.

“It’s just that I’m not…” He hunches his shoulders, ducks his chin to rest against his chest. “I’m just not. Out.”

Jack knew that, was aware of it when planning this trip, but he didn’t give it much thought. Clearly, he should have. 

“You’re worried about your parents,” Jack interprets quietly, pointing his lens back at the hickories by the water. Now that he knows what to look for the signs are clearly there. The Bitty he knows from school, open and lively and sure of who he is, becomes guarded and highly vigilant in Madison. It never occurred to Jack to think about it closely; he was too preoccupied with his own concerns, too aware of the need for discretion regardless. It’s simply coded into the backbones of his behavior by now, something he doesn’t actively consider.

Bitty sighs again, rubs the skin of his arm absentmindedly. “Not so much _worried_. Worried sounds bad, like I’m scared of them. Which I’m not, it’s just. I couldn’t stop thinking about them, and what they might think, or what would happen if --”

He stops again, and Jack takes a photo of the bony branches sprawled against the sky before he stands up, wipes off the dirt sticking to the hair on his knee. Bitty’s looking at him, mouth pinched, and Jack comes close enough to brush their shoulders together. 

“Did they say anything last week, about the court ruling?”

Bitty texted him, after, with vague reassurances that he was okay, and when they talked on the phone through the draft he sounded alright, so Jack didn’t pry. Now, Bitty sighs and leans his shoulder further into Jack’s. Jack tries not to lose himself in this smallest of physical contacts. “Not really. It was in the paper and all, not to mention the town news source -- that is, the knitting club’s meeting -- so _surely_ they heard, but no, they never said a thing.”

“That -- can be good, right? Not saying anything at all means not saying anything bad.”

Bitty’s mouth relaxes, and he grants a meager smile. “I guess. But it’s also nerve-racking. I wish I could just tell them, you know? But I never know what to say, and sometimes I think -- maybe it would’ve been better if I knew for sure they’d never accept it, me, that I knew what to expect. But I don’t. I don’t know if they’d understand. So it’s always hard to come back from Samwell to this, but it’s never _this_ hard. You being here --”

Their eyes meet, hold for a long moment. Jack can’t peg how he feels, the churning in his stomach and the throb of pulse in his temples. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved that everything that felt wrong has nothing at all to do with them, or upset that it’s nothing he can fix or control. Jack only knows that he’s so gratified they’re _talking again_ , so he takes a leap and suggests, gingerly, “We can make sure to be careful. If you want.”

He’s cognizant of what he’s offering, what’s now out in the open. It’s no less terrifying for his awareness of it. The discomfiture must be evident on his face for those knowing what to look for, and Bitty’s answering blush is immediate, a soft pink. “Will that… be alright with you?”

Jack waited six weeks and flew a thousand miles to gather his words, and it still wasn’t enough. There’s so much he needs to tell Bitty -- so much that could shatter this delicate thing before it ever really begins. He knows that they need to have an honest conversation, at some point, and he needs to explain to Bitty that this, them, would have to stay secret for the foreseeable future. He also knows that Bitty might -- possibly even should -- say that it’s too much to ask of him.

He still has a little time before that conversation, though. “I’m -- alright with whatever you’re alright with, Bitty. And it’s better this way for me, too.”

Bitty’s eyes grow wider and then soften. He lets out an almost noiseless sigh, turning his body to Jack’s, and without any warning steps closer, bringing their chests together. He slides his arms under Jack’s, wrapping around his ribcage and coming up to rest between his shoulder blades, pushing his camera to the side. He’s a small, solid weight, and he fits in the nooks of Jack’s body better than Jack ever knew two people could fit together. Jack’s arms fold over the breadth of Bitty’s shoulder after a moment of wonderment, bringing them closer together. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, is dizzy with the thought of the exposed skin right under his palms, so he clenches them into fists that rest on the top of Bitty’s arms. 

It’s -- so good that he has to consciously remind himself to keep breathing. Remind himself that even a secluded sliver of woods is in public, and this hug has to remain a platonic display of affection. It’s harder to grasp that concept when Bitty lowers his head, resting his forehead hesitantly against the middle of Jack’s chest. He’s hugged Shitty in the past four years more often than he’s touched any other human being, but it’s never felt like his heart was clawing its way out of his breast. God fucking damnit. _Bitty_.

“Could definitely be alright with that,” Bitty says in a rush, finally, speaks it into Jack’s chest without looking up. He sounds breathless, and Jack thinks, _god_ , that makes two of them. “I was the best at hide and seek in kindergarten, y’know -- the other kids would pitch a hissy fit when they couldn’t find me. So I’m an expert at sneakin’ around.” 

Jack can picture it too clearly, actually; Bitty, knee-high and quick as a lightning, bending all those limbs to fit into narrow spaces. He almost voices the thought that the same qualities undoubtedly translated into Bitty’s evasiveness on the ice, but doesn’t. Instead, he offers a smile and jokes, “ _Évidemment_ , Bittle. That height’s gotta be good for something, eh?”, digs his chin into the crown of Bitty’s head for emphasis.

Bitty makes an indignant noise and loosens one arm to elbow Jack right in the ribs, hard enough to hurt. “Excuse me! Goodness, you’re rude. Maybe I should make use of my talents and hide from _you_.”

“No,” Jack counters immediately. Heat rushes to his cheeks, but he tightens his arms around Bitty nevertheless, lets the palm of his left hand uncurl and curve over the ball of Bitty’s shoulder. He can feel Bitty’s chest expanding and compressing against his as he breathes. It’s absurdly distracting. Christ, but Jack is _gone_ on him. “We wouldn’t want that.”

Bitty’s breath comes out in a rush, turning his head so his cheek is pressed against the fabric covering Jack’s chest. They stay wrapped together like this for a moment, or maybe an eternity, before Bitty pulls away and takes a step backwards. Jack’s body strains forward, keenly aware of the loss, but he resists. “Come on, we don’t have much time. Let’s go see Mrs. Callahan’s garden. She’s growing some type of exotic Japanese flowers right by the church and Mrs. Tewskbury claims it’s practically sacrilegious. It’s the talk of the town.”

Jack allows himself a revealing smile. He wonders if Bitty recognizes now that it really doesn’t matter where he takes Jack.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


They come back to wash up an hour before dinner, bumping shoulders with increasing vigor all the way up the street until Bitty checks Jack into a lamppost right before the house. He rushes ahead, beats Jack to the front porch by a millisecond and looks entirely too smug about it. Jack pulls his hat off and crams it onto Bitty’s head in retaliation, sweat-damp and all, announces, “That’s two minutes in the sin bin, Bittle.” 

Bitty takes it in stride, twists the bill to the back of his head. They’re both drenched, anyway. The back of their shirts sport large circles of sweat and the skin at their cheeks and noses is tender-pink from the sun. Bitty’s freckles are more prominent under the burn, maybe, because Jack doesn’t recall noticing them so obviously before; would probably remember wanting to press his mouth to them and follow them up Bitty’s cheekbones.

They kick their shoes off on the porch before entering. The first stroke of the kitchen’s ceiling fan against Jack’s skin is a sublime relief, and Jack’s so keen to escape the heat that he considers starfishing on the tiles right there on the kitchen floor. Mrs. Bittle is standing at the stove top with an apron and oven mitts on, however, and she looks up at them as soon as they enter. 

“Right on time! Dicky, I washed all of the sheets that we piled in the guest room before Jack arrived, mind helping me fold them and store them in the linen closet in your room? I need the space for the cookout’s tablecloths.” 

“Sure, mama,” Bitty agrees dutifully from behind Jack. He takes off the Falconers hat and hangs it on the coat rack by the door, ruffling the sweaty strands of his hair. His cowlick sticks out even more than usual, and Jack clenches his fists by his sides to avoid reaching out and smoothing it down. “You makin’ mashed potatoes? How long for them to boil?”

“Fifteen minutes, so we gotta be quick. I’ve still the beans left, and you boys need to shower, by the looks of it.”

She pulls off the mitts, goes up the stairs before them. Bitty shoves Jack into the hallway and up the stairs after her, with his hands splayed out on Jack’s shoulder, the tips of his thumbs brushing the line of Jack’s collar right by his skin. His hands are warm -- the only warmth Jack wouldn't squirm away from right now. He turns his head just enough to catch Bitty’s eye, but Bitty’s hands don’t leave his back. Jack’s heart beats louder and louder and louder, deafening. Feeling Bitty’s skin on his is different inside, different like this.

“You’re coming with to keep us company,” Bitty leaves no room for argument.

“I haven’t seen your room yet,” Jack says. Mrs. Bittle disappears down the hall and comes back carrying a laundry basket full of clean sheets, while Bitty opens the door and ushers Jack inside.

Bitty’s bed is lined against the opposite wall, bathed in the light coming from the window behind it. His shelves are packed with textbooks and albums and skating medals, his floor covered by a soft rug. There are posters on his wall that Jack knows by now are of Beyoncé, and a man in sequins mid-jump that Jack doesn’t recognize. Jack looks around, doesn’t touch anything, thinks that he now understands Bitty’s fascination during their Skype call from his childhood bedroom. It feels disarmingly like looking into Bitty’s self.

Mrs. Bittle pulls open the closet door, puts the basket on the floor and picks up the topmost sheet. Bitty grabs one side while she grabs the other and together they fold it into a neat square. Jack leaves them to it, mostly tries not to get in the way. He steps deeper into the room, instead, rounds Bitty’s bed to look at the medals on his shelves more closely. “You’ve never told me what competitions you won,” he says, trying to make sense of them.

Bitty looks up from the pink sheet he’s folding in half with his mother. “It never really came up. My last one was the South Atlantic Juniors Regionals, maybe -- six years ago?”

“2010,” Mrs. Bittle confirms, smiling at Bitty. She takes the pink square and puts it on top of the pile. “We drove all the way to Maryland, us and Katya. Almost ten hours in the car. Bless her pea-pickin’ heart, I never thought we’d all make it outta there alive.”

Bitty laughs, selects another sheet from the basket. “Lord, and I was _so nervous_. Remember how I made you listen to my program song about twenty times in a row to calm down? Gosh. It’s been so long.”

Jack doesn’t really know much about figure skating, and Bitty never made a habit of talking about it at the Haus. It doesn’t stop the prickle of excitement that Jack gets from looking at the tiny trophies of men on skates, from listening to Bitty talk about competing with so much spirit. He’s always admired good athletes. He didn’t usually find common ground with people who _weren't_. “Regionals -- how good are the odds for that? How does the qualifying process work in the US?”

“Oh, uh. There were about two hundred single programs,” Bitty answers, dropping his eyes to his hands. Mrs. Bittle watches him, mouth thinning, but doesn’t say anything. “Maybe three hundred? Top six advance to Eastern Sectionals. Then top four to Nationals.”

Jack shifts away from the shelves to face Bitty, forehead creasing. That’s about four out of twelve for Nationals; he knew Bitty loved figure skating, that he was good at it, but that’s not just _good_. And Jack asked about competitions Bitty _won_ when Bitty talked about Regionals. “So what happened at Sectionals?”

Bitty shrugs with one shoulder. It’s sunburnt as well, darker than the skin on his arms. “Nothing. I never competed. We moved to Madison, my place went to seventh rank, and that was that. Next thing I knew I was playing co-ed hockey.”

“Rick got a job at the local school,” Mrs. Bittle elaborates. She doesn’t look at Jack, picks up another sheet, and Jack watches the both of them from the other side of the room, once again struck by how similar their body language is. “It was the right choice, a good job, and Dicky’s old school --. Anyhow. Katya was too far away from here, and we hoped hockey would be a good compromise.”

Bitty fists his hands in the sheet, steps a little closer to his mother. He’s almost a head taller than her, and with both of their heads bent they look like deformed mirror images. “It _was_ a good compromise, mama, and I -- you know I always appreciated it. And besides, I got Samwell out of it, right? So all's well that ends well and whatnot.”

“And we’re lucky to have you,” Jack says, feeling helpless but obligated to say something. Both of the Bittles’ heads spring up, and he shuffles a little awkwardly, but soldiers on. He meets Mrs. Bittle’s eyes when he repeats, “We’re lucky to have him. This season -- the team wouldn’t have been the same without him.”

“Oh, shush, you!” Bitty protests immediately, but Mrs. Bittle smiles a little gratefully, picks the corners of the sheet out of Bitty’s hands. She smooths the square and places it on top of the finished pile, and then lifts it from the bottom and hands it over to Bitty, who stretches on the tip of his toes and sets it on one of the empty shelves in the closet. Mrs. Bittle takes hold of the empty basket and lifts it to her hip.

“I’ll go take care of my potatoes. Dicky, I still need you to set the table and dress the salads, so make your showers quick. We don’t wanna be late for the fireworks.” 

“Yes ma'am. Be right down.” 

She takes the basket with her when she exits the room, the door cracking half shut after her. Jack looks at Bitty searchingly, while Bitty looks at the door. 

Jack knew that Bitty didn’t come into hockey like the rest of them, but he never considered the weight of the sacrifices Bitty was willing to make for his family, for his safety. Jack’s mistakes almost cost him hockey, once, and the idea of it paralyzed him for years; Bitty had something he was passionate about torn from him and simply picked himself back up because it was the right thing to do. Jack wants to say something about it, maybe, but doesn’t know if it’d be welcome. His praise already felt too heavy-handed, and much too late.

Bitty turns his head, and then they’re both looking at each other. The silence is just slightly less suffocating than before. Bitty closes the closet door and comes half a step closer, his left leg lingering behind. Jack crosses a similar distance, and their eyes dart to the cracked open door simultaneously, then immediately back at each other. Bitty huffs and Jack runs a hand down the back of his head, both of them embarrassed. 

“It’s nice to see it in real life,” Jack says, mostly to say anything. He looks around the room again, trying not to feel the awkwardness sticking to his limbs. It’s calming, watching the curtains rippling and the sunbeams dancing on the familiar wallpapers. He can feel warmth spreading all the way to his feet. It’s exactly as he pictured it, exactly as it looked through cameras, but witnessing it in the flesh feels different. More solid, maybe. “I was imagining it when I fell asleep two days ago.” 

The words are out of his mouth before the thought fully forms in his head, uncensored, too honest. Bitty’s eyes snap to Jack’s, mouth dropping open, and Jack feels a flush climbing up his throat.

“My room?” Bitty asks, stunned. His hand is still on the closet’s doorknob. 

Jack nods. He didn’t mean to say it, has no idea why he’s not taking it back or why he’s letting more stupid words spill out. He’s just overwhelmed, and constantly awkward, and so fucking fond of Bitty that he feels like he’s got too many emotions for the tight space in his body. He keeps saying all the wrong things because he’s desperate to be saying _something_ , and is ready to start talking in words that mean something real. Having Bitty in the same room as him is just -- making him lightheaded. Nonsensical. “Yeah. Thought of being here. Seeing it in person.”

But god, it’s embarrassing. Bitty blinks, and in a split second brings his hand up to cover his mouth, muffling a high-pitched giggle. Jack watches him feeling stupidly charmed, lets a ridiculous grin spread over his face. The emotions blooming between them crackle in the air of the room.

Bitty rakes his hand down his face and diagonally, sheepishly rubbing it over the side of his neck. “I like this whole talking honestly thing,” he says, grinning back at Jack, lit up like the sun. 

It’s like now that Jack’s said something, he can’t imagine why they haven’t been talking like this since the moment he arrived. Anxious thoughts are fickle, unreliable like that. Gone as if they never were once the crisis is over. Good at making him think there was something wrong with him for worrying in the first place.

He’s no idea what he keeps waiting for, really. “I kissed you.”

Bitty looks taken aback. He blinks quickly, hand dropping from his neck to his side. “Oh -- well -- yes, I mean, it was three hours ago --”

“No, I mean.” Jack pauses, huffs. “After graduation, at the Haus. I kissed you.”

Bitty lifts his head, shoulders straightening. The look he gives Jack is so soft, so unguarded after hours of fumbling blindly around each other. Jack’s heart clenches. “Oh. Yes. I know.”

Jack swallows, nods. “And we haven’t talked about it yet.”

“No,” Bitty agrees. His mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to smile.

“I want to talk about it,” Jack clarifies. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings, doesn’t want to think twice or thrice or seven times about everything before he says it. _He kissed Bittle_. It seems like forever ago.

“Yeah,” Bitty draws a breath, nods slowly. The smile he was holding back slipping through just enough. “Yeah, Jack. Me too. I’d like that.”

Jack breathes, feels overwhelmed by Bitty, and the situation, and this entire day. “Bits. I like you so, _so_ much.”

It’s not what Bitty expected to hear, clearly. He flutters his eyes, licks his lips. He looks -- floored, like Jack punched the words and the sense out of him. Jack has nothing else to say, no way to salvage the situation if it goes south, but then Bitty blinks and says, breathily, “It’s still weird to hear you call me that.”

Jack doesn’t know what response he was expecting, heart still racing too fast to process anything logically. He frowns. “Bad weird?”

Forty-three days ago, Jack’s laptop was heating up against his legs as he leaned on the headboard of his bed and laughed so awkwardly because neither of them knew what to say. It was their first Skype call, and Jack asked, _good weird?_ , and Bitty nodded, blushed, said nothing. Now, Bitty shakes his head, smiles, and says -- 

“Nah. Good weird.” He shuffles closer, herding Jack into the desk right behind him. Jack’s hip bumps into the edge of it, digging into his flesh, but Bitty steps a little bit closer. He looks just as nervous as Jack, almost shy, but his grin is so wide that Jack’s worried it’d split his face in two. “Jack. I really, _really_ like you, too.”

“Oh.” Christ, he’s so bad at this. His stomach flops once and twice and again, his throat feels itchy. His insides feel like they’re fluttering, like all of his organs are heating up and vibrating in place. He slowly reaches out, spreads one palm over the band of Bitty’s shorts, careful not to touch any exposed skin. He’s still unsure that he’s actually allowed to do this. That they’re finally here. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Bitty echoes, giggles again. His hand finds Jack’s elbow, settles over the knobby bones of its joints. It’s not -- a hug, not really, but they’re standing so close, grinning stupidly at each other. They both look like idiots, probably, but Jack doesn’t care. God, he _really_ doesn't care. He curls his hand just a little tighter into the fabric of the shorts, pinky hooking around one of the belt loops. He likes Bitty and Bitty likes him back and they both know. It’s out there. Jesus fucking Christ.

“We gotta go shower,” Bitty sighs, leaning forward, his nose touching Jack’s cheek ever so slightly. There’s still a layer of sweat glistening over his top lip from the heat of the outdoors. “Wear something light, okay? Sunset isn’t really as much of a factor as you’d think.”

“Alright,” Jack agrees. Would probably agree to anything right now. “You go first. I’ll meet you downstairs?”

Bitty bites his lip, meets Jack’s eyes, and in a flash of a movement presses his mouth to Jack’s cheek. Then he steps away from Jack’s reach, eyes still dancing. The skin of Jack’s cheek tingles.

“See you there, Zimmermann.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mrs. Bittle makes enough food to feed the entire Haus, Lardo included, with leftovers for the next day. There’s a bowl of the aforementioned mashed potatoes, three types of greens, freshly baked cornbread, pork roast glistening with gravy, and a heaping pile of fried chicken that’s set pointedly right in front of Jack’s plate. 

Bitty takes the seat next to Jack while Mrs. Bittle orders her husband around the kitchen, and leans in close to whisper, “Thanks goodness she didn’t go above and beyond this time.” Jack blinks at him, dumbfounded, and thinks that Bitty’s upbringing suddenly makes a lot of things about him very clear.

Coach and Mrs. Bittle join them at the round table with a pitcher of sweet tea and begin scooping the food into plates immediately. Jack’s hand hovers, hesitant to pick up his utensils until everyone begins eating. He thinks Bitty’s mentioned going to church on holidays, but he’s never elaborated on his family’s religious affiliation. Jack watches Mrs. Bittle’s hand gestures as she tells Bitty about the bean recipe and is alarmed to realize that he’s never in his life said grace, and wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to approach it now. 

Fortunately, Coach cuts and forks his pork without any pause. Jack exhales and lowers his eyes back to his plate, only to find that it’s already full. He glances to his left, eyebrows arched. Bitty is smiling into his cornbread complacently.

“Say, Jack, you ever tried real sweet tea?” Coach asks, making Jack tear his eyes away from the gentle curve of Bitty’s cheek. He’s holding the pitcher up, nods his chin at Jack’s empty glass. The ice cubes in the pitcher rattle with the movement. “None of that crap you find up north. C’mon, hand over your glass.”

Jack opens his mouth to politely decline -- he’s at least _trying_ to stick to his diet, and if there’s anything he does know is that the Bittles don’t do dinner without dessert -- when he feels a soft nudge against his ankle, making him jump. The pressure slides smoothly up his shin, nearly causing him to drop his knife onto the table, and he stutters, “Oh, yes, thank you,” just so he can look away from Coach’s eyes faster. 

Bitty’s chewing his pork serenely, listening to the tailend of his mother’s story -- but Jack knows what to look for, by now, and the tips of Bitty’s ears are decidedly pink, turning darker with every passing second. Jack takes a moment to marvel at Bitty’s boldness and change in attitude, then nudges his foot back in Bitty’s direction, tangling their ankles together briefly. Bitty’s barefoot, and his toes poke against Jack’s skin, moving on it in subtle circles. 

Bitty draws his ankle away a moment later, allowing Jack to calm his breathing. Bitty crosses his feet together, instead, and the spread of his legs makes his right knee press against Jack’s left under the small table. It’s a subtle touch, but Jack’s entire body is completely fixated on Bitty, on the amount of distance between them at any given moment. Bitty leans his hand on the table when he isn’t using it to eat, so Jack keeps his on top of the table, too. Their knuckles brush whenever one of them brings the hand up, and it sends a thrill through Jack’s body.

“Still think the Hawks could’ve definitely taken it,” Bitty says, making Jack tune back into the conversation, a little shameful to discover how rude he’s been by not being present. He didn’t hear whatever Bitty’s replying to, but it seems that Bitty’s talking American football with his father. “Butler was unexpected --”

“Caroll made a stupid call,” Coach says, taking a swig from his glass, and Bitty snorts in response.

“I think he figured that one out, Coach. And he’ll take whatever they say about him next season while saying please and thank you.”

“You were rooting for Seattle?” Jack asks, looking between Bitty and Coach. He didn’t have much time to watch the playoffs this year, with spring semester bringing about their own playoffs and Jack’s negotiations with various teams, but they watched the Super Bowl at the Haus like they do every year. The game was a close call, and the Patriots got mostly lucky.

“Bite your tongue,” Bitty admonishes, knocking his fist into Jack’s wrist. “This house is black, red and silver all the way.” 

“Even if Atlanta never make it to postseason again,” Mrs. Bittle quietly despairs into her chicken.

“We do not speak of the Mike Smith debacle,” Coach raises his glass warningly, pointing it at Jack. “I promised Junior, so never mind that. You like any teams, Jack?”

Jack glances quickly at Bitty, who rolls his eyes in a clear display of, _I warned you_. Jack came prepared, though, for this if for nothing else, so he smiles and says, “Not really. We usually watch the season together -- the Samwell team, I mean. Our friend Adam likes his home team --”

“For no reason other than that,” Bitty adds huffily, “he’s from _Buffalo.”_

Jack lets out a quiet _ha_ , ducking his head. “Yeah, we usually root for the Jets or the Patriots to annoy him. He’s really big on football, so there’s no excuse for him. But I like whoever’s having a good, solid season.”

“Let the boy eat,” Mrs. Bittle smacks her husband on his forearm, then pushes the cornbread closer to Jack, urging him to fill up his plate. “Y’know, we weren’t really a hockey house ‘till Dicky started playing, but we’re starting to get into it now. Your daddy talked us through a few games, and it was real fun! Wasn’t it, Rick?”

Coach shoves a spoonful of greens into his mouth, muttering around it. Bitty seems to choke on his food trying not to laugh.

“And it’s so exciting that you’ll be joining the league next season!” Mrs. Bittle continues as if Coach reacted exactly as she anticipated, still cutting her food absentmindedly. “We’ll be watching your games, of course. Are you looking forward to going pro? A couple of Rick’s boys did it, and it always seemed like such a big life change.”

Jack’s been asked some variation of this question maybe fifty times since the franchise’s announcement went public, by fellow students and family and his father’s friends. But Bitty’s knuckles graze his, just quickly enough to look incidental, and Jack doesn’t need to try hard to smile at Mrs. Bittle. “Yes, ma'am. Well, I guess I’m not looking forward to all the media attention going in. But I’m lucky I got to see how my dad handled it over the years.”

Coach nods solemnly, smoothing his mustache between two fingers. “Well, son, your father must be so proud to see you out there on the ice.”

Jack swallows, tries to bite back the immediate reaction to people mentioning his father. It’s not the Bittles’ fault -- he brought it up, first. He’s been getting better, too, at associating his father with the concept of _pride_ , so he sneaks another look at Bitty, who’s looking down at his mashed potatoes, and says, “Thank you, sir. I hope so.”

Jack’s not surprised to find that most of the dinnertime conversation after that is carried by Bitty and Mrs. Bittle, in paces neither Jack nor Coach are capable of matching. They move swiftly between Bitty’s latest vlog idea to the various pies planned for the cookout to Mrs. Bittle’s weekly book club meeting, in which there was a very dramatic argument about _The Last Ballad_. Coach interrupts for sporadic remarks (“I don’t like that Ms. Delmar character, Suzy, she insulted you that one time and hasn’t said sorry,” with his thick eyebrows pulled low), and Bitty commentates at several points to involve Jack in the conversation (“We can’t decide on tomorrow’s pies without consulting Moomaw, of course, but she’ll be at the park tonight, won’t she, mama?”); other than that, they carry the conversation on their own, and Jack is happy to let them.

Despite his certainty, it seems that dessert won’t be had right after dinner. They remain sitting after everyone’s done eating, chatting convivially, until Mrs. Bittle glances at Coach’s wristwatch and tells them that they should get moving to the park. Bitty and Coach rise immediately, stacking empty plates on top of each other, and Jack hurries to stand so he can help them carry things across the room to the kitchen.

“I can help,” he insists the third time one of the Bittles takes the dishes out of his hands, but Mrs. Bittle gives him such a stern look that he backs off instantly, spouting apologies.

“Coach, you takin’ mama’s car?” Bitty asks from the sink, already elbows deep in soapy water. “Jack and I can take the truck with all of the things if y'all go ahead and find a good spot.”

“Good plan, Junior,” Coach agrees, and Jack lingers by the table as he watches the Bittles bustle around, grabbing picnic blankets and camping chairs and putting a pie tin into a cooler. Coach stacks the chairs by the door and, once he catches sight of Jack standing awkwardly to the side, gestures him over. “C’mon, you can help me put these in the back of the truck.”

The two of them load the truck with the three chairs, two blankets, and a few sleeping bags that Bitty shoves into his father’s hands at the last minute. Coach looks confused, but Bitty says, “Just -- it’ll be more comfortable,” and while Coach doesn’t look less confused, he also doesn’t ask any further questions. 

Coach and Mrs. Bittle get into the other car in the driveway, the cooler with the pie balanced on Mrs. Bittle’s knees. Bitty waves them off, hands still wet, and goes back inside to finish the last few dishes still soaking in the sink. Jack trails after him, grabbing a dishtowel off the rack to make himself useful now that Mrs. Bittle is out of eyesight. 

“The town all gathers at Heritage Park to watch the fireworks,” Bitty explains while wiping a glass clean and handing it to Jack. “The real celebrations are tomorrow, obviously, but it’s a nice thing. Hey, hand me that plate -- thank you -- anyway, most of my family will be here tomorrow, but Moomaw drives up specifically for the fireworks. We always used to watch it together before we moved.”

“I feel like I know her already,” Jack teases, bumping his hip into Bitty’s while he dries a spoon. “She’s a household name. Well, in some households.”

“Some Hausholds,” Bitty teases back, looks up to meet Jack’s eyes, and he’s smiling.

Jack loops his camera bag over his chest before they leave, while Bitty shoves his feet into sandals and grabs the truck keys from its place by the door. Jack knows what to expect, now, so he rushes ahead while Bitty’s locking up the house and waits by the driver’s door, innocently holding onto the handle. Bitty huffs when he sees this, but he accepts Jack opening the door for him good-naturedly, and his ears only color slightly.

Bitty turns the radio on once they’re both seated without checking the station, backs out of the driveway. The truck is obviously old, the kind that makes unexplainable noises while braking and turning, but Bitty drives it like it’s second nature, his hands light and confident. It’s a lot like he is with a hockey stick, which maybe explains why Jack is so fascinated.

“I like watching you drive,” Jack says, observing Bitty’s forearms with interest. His hands are big for his size, and his wrist bones are prominent, and Jack just -- likes looking at them grabbing the wheel, shifting gears. What he means and doesn’t say is, _I like watching you drive so much that I couldn’t help but kiss you this noon._ What he really means and wouldn’t say is, _watching you drive turns me on a little_. 

He thinks his voice maybe betrays some of his true intentions, because Bitty’s shift into second gear is done with less elegance than usual and when he says, “Hush you! Silly man,” Jack thinks that he looks embarrassed. 

The park is already packed when they get there. The grass is dotted with families, and it takes them a moment to detect Mrs. Bittle through the truck windows, waving them over from a spot not far away from the parking lot. She’s standing right by Coach, and there’s a tiny older woman behind her, holding onto Coach’s arm.

Bitty’s looking around for a parking spot. Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the Bittles as he asks Bitty, “Is that Moomaw?”, a little skeptically, because he imagined -- well. Bent back, white hair, maybe even a walking cane. Someone a lot older, to go with the name and the stories. 

“Yeah!” Bitty replies, still twisting his head this way and that to find a spot that’s empty. They’re crawling more than they are driving because the parking lot is utterly swamped with cars. “She’s the best, and also the most terrifying. It’s a gift.”

“Isn’t she… I mean. How old is she?”

Bitty laughs. “Oh, she’s not even seventy yet. We procreate young in the South. Technically speaking I’m twenty, and the fact that I’m not engaged yet is really worrisome for some folks.”

Bitty finds a parking spot, maneuvering into it gracefully. The two of them climb out of the cab, head for the back to grab the blankets and the chairs. They turn towards the rest of Bitty’s family, and Jack says quietly while they walk, “That can’t be right, Bittle. I feel like you’re stereotyping a little.”

Bitty smiles. “Maybe a lil’ bit. Older folks _are_ like that, though, and my parents were engaged before graduating college. My cousin Tammy -- you might meet her tomorrow -- she and her boyfriend have been together for a year or so and she’s not allowed to step into the house without the family checking her for a ring first.”

Jack takes this in, hoists the chairs higher onto his shoulder. He knows that his first intuitive responses to this information are insane, is painfully aware of his ability to scare people off. When they’re getting close to Bitty’s family he decides joking about it is the best game plan, and whispers, “No pressure, huh?”, slipping away quickly before he can see Bitty’s reaction. His heart accelerates erratically in his chest. 

From up close, Moomaw is an aged replica of Bitty’s and Mrs. Bittle’s bone structure and facial features. Her skin is slightly wrinkled, her posture slumping only marginally forward, but if it wasn’t for the gray roots beneath her dyed blonde hair Jack would’ve never guessed she has a grandson in college. He passes the folded camping chairs to Coach’s waiting hands while Moomaw lets go of Coach’s arm and turns to Jack. It’s immediately obvious what Bitty meant when he said she was terrifying; her face seems to be settled on an assessing expression and her eyes are sharp like a hawk’s. Jack feels, mystifyingly, like a very small prey.

“Moomaw, this is Jack,” Bitty beams, switching the blankets to one arm so he can push Jack forward with a hand on the middle of his back, egging him towards his grandmother. “He’s one of my good friends from college. Jack, this is the infamous Moomaw. He’s heard much more about you than you’ve heard about him, I promise.”

Moomaw’s reaction to him, unlike Mrs. Bittle’s warm welcome and Coach’s succinct greeting, is staring up at his face passively, making Jack flounder a little. He sticks his hand out for a handshake because he doesn’t know what else to do, which Moomaw, thankfully, takes either with amusement or with pity, because she wraps her small hand around his. “I really have, ma’am. Eric talks about you almost every time he bakes.”

Moomaw clicks her tongue, glancing at Bitty. “And does he bake a lot? You better not be forgetting how to make all of my favorite recipes, Dicky. I need someone to make them for me when I’m too old.”

Bitty laughs, stepping forward to wrap his arm around Moomaw’s narrow shoulders. “Oh, nonsense, you goose, you’re gonna be a spring chicken ‘till you’re a hundred and ten.”

“He does bake a lot, though,” Jack supplies nervously. He can hear his own postgame interview voice, has no idea how to modify that. “Really. A lot.”

Moomaw hums, trailing her look over Jack’s upper body. “Hm. Good. Boys like you need lots of food, or you wilt like hydrangeas. Dicky, go be a dear and help your daddy set everything up, I’d like to be sitting sometime this century.”

Bitty laughs again, squeezing her arm. It’d be clear that he adores his grandmother even if Jack hasn't heard about her repeatedly for two years. “That’s her way of saying she wants to interrogate you without witnesses, Jack. Choose your words wisely,” he says, and then he leaves Jack with this tiny Southern woman, who for some reason is much scarier than some of the largest defensemen he’s had to face on the ice.

She watches Bitty go, doesn’t say anything until he’s out of earshot. “He’s my favorite grandson, you know. God bless my children, some of them spawned more than others -- but Dicky is something special.” She then looks back at Jack, her face morphing familiarly. It takes Jack a moment to place it as Bitty’s most terrifying glare, usually reserved for anyone who touches his heirloom rolling pin or says something rude about Beyoncé. “You'll do well to keep it to yourself, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees quickly. He can feel sweat dripping slowly down his spine, and he doesn’t even think it’s because of the humidity.

She turns to watch Bitty over her shoulder again. The blankets they’ve brought are now all spread on the ground, Coach is already settled in one of the chairs, and Bitty is off talking to his mother too far away to be audible. “Tell me that god-awful New England is good for him. I couldn’t ever imagine how, what with all that snow and Yankees and away from his mama’s kitchen, but he claims to be as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine. His pumpkin pie last Christmas tasted happy, at least.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Jack blinks, choosing not to examine _dead pig in the sunshine_ too closely. Her sharp look seems to indicate that she’s not happy with his condensed reply, so he pulls himself together and manages, “I’d like to say he’s happy. We’re a close-knit group of guys, and I know he enjoys hockey, and, uh, school. Mostly. So I think he’s happy -- we’re happy he’s there, anyway. Ma’am.” 

He can hear Holster and Ransom mocking him in his head; _solid response from forward and team captain Jack Zimmermann_. If the sports reporters doing the interviewing are going to be even half as naturally intimidating as Moomaw, he’ll have to ask George about some goddamn media training.

“My, you’re a polite one,” Moomaw finally grants him a smile, and then she reaches out to pat his arm once and sighs. “Well, I suppose that’ll hafta do. If y'all are anything like Rick’s boys, y'all'll take care of each other, and him. Right?”

“Yes,” he agrees quickly, blinking rapidly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Jack.” She walks away, then, sitting down on the chair next to Coach and accepting a fork and a plate most likely filled with pie. Jack stays rooted, watching her from afar, not sure he fully processed all of that. He’s still stock-still by the time Bitty comes to stand by him, taking hold of his elbow and pulling him a little to the side, away from the Bittles’ line of sight.

“So… change of plans,” Bitty says, not looking directly as Jack’s face. 

His hand is warm on Jack’s skin, and Jack has to blink a few times to focus. “Uh -- okay?”

“Yeah. We’re going.”

“What?” Jack tenses, stepping closer to Bitty and grabbing one of his biceps loosely. Bitty still isn’t looking at him, and he’s chewing his bottom lip raw. “Is -- is something wrong, or --?”

“No, no -- we’re just -- going. To someplace that is not here.”

Jack squints, letting go of Bitty’s arm. “Uh. Alright? Are we not watching the fireworks…?”

“No, we are,” Bitty says, and then he finally looks Jack in the eye. Jack doesn’t know why, but he looks skittish. “Just not here. With my family.” 

He gives Jack what seems to be a significant look, but Jack, even while lowering his head and trying to decipher it, doesn’t get what he’s trying to say. Maybe Bitty is trying to do him some sort of favor, taking him away from the crowd. “Is it because of me? Because I'm really okay with staying, Bittle, I mean, your parents are very nice and I’d like to get to know your grandmother. But maybe from a safe distance.”

Bitty’s eye twitches, and he looks exasperated, still a little embarrassed. He lets go of Jack’s elbow and rubs his forefinger at the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “You can chat with Moomaw tomorrow all you want. I told mama that we’re meeting up with some friends, and they’ll take all of the stuff back home in the trunk of her car. Come on, Zimmermann, I’m not spelling this out for you -- move your butt.”

He steps around Jack, then, and heads back towards the parking lot. Jack follows him to the car, confused, trying to keep up with the rapid pace of his walking. He moves fast for a person with such short legs.

“Euh, are we? Meeting friends?” he asks, because Bitty’s mentioned no such thing, but Bitty just hunches his shoulders and walks faster, forcing Jack to fasten his footsteps. He looks back over his shoulder, just to check, but Bitty’s family aren’t even looking at them as they leave. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Bitty takes them back onto the bypass -- north, away from the town. The road is swarming with vehicles on the opposite lane, all of them probably on their way towards the park to watch the show. Jack leans the hot skin of his forehead against the cool window and does nothing but breath. He has no idea where they’re going, but the fields on the sides of the road are growing larger and balder, and the houses are growing farther and farther apart. He’s pretty confident that they’re not meeting friends.

They get off the bypass after a few minutes and onto a winding road that circles around the fields at the edge of town, and then, a couple minutes later, off onto an uphill dirt road. It splits off a few times into narrow access roads that seem to lead to the remotest houses of Madison, and then after a while there’s nothing but the sound of the truck’s tires grinding on gravel and the distant echoes of the masses celebrating on the other side of the fields.

“Is your secret plan to murder me and dispose of the body?” Jack asks quietly after maybe five minutes of driving, head still turned to watch the green and the brown blur by them under the dimming light of the setting sun. “Well, I guess murder’s a traditional kind of American patriotism.”

“How dare you mock America on her birthday,” Bitty replies; he sounds nervous, but he’s smiling. Small, crooked, lovely. Jack wants to kiss it until it’s red.

The road loops around mild slopes of low-cropped grass and all of a sudden Bitty swerves the wheel sharply, and the truck bumps up and down as it goes off the dirt road and directly across the sweeping field. The idea of it sinks in to Jack just then, and his heart skips a beat, then two. There is, quite literally, no one around, and they could hear and see anyone approaching long before anyone could see them.

They drive straight through, stop in the middle of what appears to be nowhere by the trunk of a thick tree. Bitty cuts the engine and for a moment they sit there, rooted. Details come to Jack in sharp relief: crickets croaking in the grass, beads of sweat collecting under his arms, the long sweep of Bitty’s pale eyelashes as he flits his look between Jack’s eyes, jittery. The pink of his tongue when it peeks out to lick his lips, the coarse upholstery of the car chair beneath Jack’s shaking hands, the contrast of Bitty’s skin against the darkening sky.

“I thought we could sit out on the truck bed,” Bitty says. His voice is low, hoarse, and Jack’s whole body is throbbing with the need to be close to him, and the knowledge that at long last he finally fucking _can_. His left hand reaches out and squeezes Bitty’s wrist as he nods quickly. The wrist flexes under his fingers, long tendons and thin bones, and Jack suppresses a shudder.

Bitty hops out and shuts the driver’s door. Jack follows him closely, and by the time he’s hovering near the bridge Bitty’s already climbed up onto the bed and is spreading one of three sleeping bags on the ridges. He pillows the other two against the wheel wall and kneels to stronghold them into place, while Jack can do nothing except stare helplessly, enchanted. The air already smells like faint fire powder and the setting sun paints everything in shades of pink and red and yellow. Bitty’s hair looks like it’s burning, and his skin looks like molten gold.

When Jack snaps back into reality, Bitty’s looking at him, flushed and pleased. Jack wonders what expression he’s wearing to make Bitty look like that, and has no intention of shifting it. Jack wants Bitty more than he’s ever wanted anyone and he’s sick and tired of trying not to let it show.

“Come on, honey,” Bitty wipes his hand on his shorts, but it’s still a little dusty from the truck bed when he offers it. “Climb up here, show’s starting soon.”

Jack takes the hand, grateful for any excuse to touch Bitty, and climbs up easily. He sets his camera bag to the side and doesn’t let go of the hand as he sprawls down with his back against the folded sleeping bags, tugs on it to get Bitty to crawl over and settle close. Jack bends his legs, too long for the width of the truck, props his feet flat against the other wall and nudges his left knee against Bitty’s. Bitty smiles, bends his own legs to tangle them with Jack’s, tucks one of his feet between Jack’s. His foot is bare, sandal kicked to the back of the bed, and the points of bare skin contact in the line of their feet and the inside of their shins and the joint of their knees is intimate, it’s too warm, it’s lighting Jack’s heart on fire.

Jack tears his eyes away from their legs and looks down at Bitty. His freckles are light brown and sporadic from up close, and Jack has to clear his throat before he can speak. His voice still comes out rough. “I’m really -- euh. I’m really happy I’m here, Bits.”

Bitty ducks his head to laugh, sweet and delighted. Jack separates their hands so he can wrap an arm around Bitty’s shoulders and tug him closer, uses the other hand to bump Bitty’s chin up with his knuckles. 

“You’ve no idea how much -- _god_. I’m happy you’re here, too, Jack.”

They grin at each other, stupidly. Jack’s left hand is trailing up and down Bitty’s shoulder, over the soft fabric of his tank top and then down, through the tender hairs of his upper arm and up again, until he’s trailing the pads of his fingertips softly over the bumps in the bones of his shoulder. It’s such a small touch, too tame in the grand scheme of things, but having any sort of permission to touch Bitty is driving Jack wild. He wants to savor it. Everything about today has been more difficult than he’d hoped, but Jack couldn’t in a million years dream up a better ending to it.

Bitty bumps Jack’s jawline with the tip of his nose, follows the line of it softly. “Still upset you couldn’t bond with Moomaw, sweetpea?” Jack leans back and blinks, almost shocked that Bitty’s chirping him _now_ , but the smug corner of Bitty’s mouth is so familiar and lovely that Jack just laughs, taken aback. “‘Cause I’ll have you know, if you want we can just turn right ‘round and drive back --”

Jack leans in one smooth movement and catches that smug corner with his own lips. Bitty breathes in sharply and quickly recovers, curling his hand on the curve of Jack’s neck, parting his lips softly. They pull back, noses brushing together, and push back in. Bitty’s lips are soft and the skin under Jack’s hand prickles as he tightens it, fingertips digging gently into firm flesh.

“You would have kicked me back to Providence if I said yes,” Jack whispers, half laughing, when they part again to breathe. Bitty tucks his head under Jack’s chin, pressing a fluttery kiss to the bottom of it that tickles with the ghost of Bitty’s answering laughter.

“I would not,” he says, and Jack can feel the words sticking to his skin like secrets. “We’ve got a thing called Southern hospitality, you see. And I would’ve been _way_ too mortified to speak with you long enough to send you back.”

Jack smiles, presses it into the crown of Bitty’s head. “I think I can choose you over Moomaw.” He reaches his free hand up to fold it over Bitty’s and draw it down from his own neck, lacing them together between their thighs. His thumb runs over Bitty’s forefinger, nail to joints to the dip into his thumb, can feel Bitty’s breath catch.

“Okay,” Bitty says, lifting his head up, and it sounds like he’s steeling himself. “Okay, one more and then I’m forcing you to focus on the fireworks. It’s Madison’s best and brightest and you will do your damndest to appreciate it.”

He leans up, his lips caressing Jack’s chin and his cheek and the bridge of his nose, presses a quick, tender kiss to the center of Jack’s mouth. Jack reacts quickly, pulls Bitty’s bottom lip between his, and when he releases it and pulls back the flush has climbed to Bitty’s cheekbones.

“Fireworks,” Jack reminds gruffly, both to Bitty and himself, and Bitty nods quickly, looking dazed. He ducks his right shoulder so it fits under Jack’s armpit with no regard to sweat stains, scoots closer, lowers his head until it’s resting over the highest point of Jack’s shoulder.

They both stop to catch their breaths, chests rising until they’re synched. The sun’s mostly down, shining faintly over the tops of the trees in the distance, and the farthest stars are already tinkling joyfully, blinking in and out of view. Jack concentrates hard on sinking into this moment, letting it engulf him, relaxing his muscles from his ankles to his thighs to his stomach to his hands. His entire body sags, lowering into the wheel wall and weighing down on Bitty’s body tucked into him. Bitty doesn’t seem to mind.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Bitty whispers a few long moments later. Jack bends his neck a little to see parts of Bitty’s profile, but Bitty’s keeping his chin tucked in, eyes facing downwards.

“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

Bitty jerks his head in agreement, once. There’s no need to whisper, they’re absolutely alone, but Bitty’s voice is still lowered. “No, I mean _here_. In my truck, parked in a field like a scene from high school I never got to play out. With -- with me. I just -- spent eight months telling myself over and over that you aren’t an option so I’d _get over it_ already, that even after you -- kissed me…” Bitty laughs, sounding embarrassed, his shoulders shaking slightly under Jack’s arm. “I guess some part of me thought maybe I still managed to read it wrong, somehow. You gotta know how impossible it is to reconcile that hockey team captain _Jack Zimmermann_ is willing to neck with me in Madison.”

Jack’s throat tightens, touched and longing and fond. “I don’t think _willing_ really captures it, Bittle. And I’m -- sorry.” Bitty jerks his head up, furrowing his eyebrows and looking confused, but Jack smiles at him ruefully and shrugs one shoulder. “That I didn’t see it for eight months. Or at all, really, it was actually my dad -- I’ll tell you that story later. I’m sorry I’m not very observant.” Bitty’s eyebrows relax and one of them lifts up slightly; _you don’t say_. 

Jack arches an eyebrow back, and lets himself imagine freshman Eric Bittle, small and uncertain and cowering beneath layers of padding, leaning in to kiss Jack at their first checking practice. It’s not an unpleasant thought -- in hindsight, it’s cute, and some part of Jack yearns for that reality where they had two years of Samwell to spend together. But it’s unrealistic. The image makes Jack smile involuntarily and Bitty to smile back in reflex. Jack probably would have blushed to the roots of his hair, scowled at him angrily out of pure mortification, stammered an excuse to skate the hell out of there and found a way to avoid Bitty at all costs until graduation.

“Here you are, though,” Bitty says softly, eyes glinting, and Jack can’t help but lean in and kiss the tip of his eyebrow, the closest part of him Jack’s mouth could reach.

“Here I am.”

In the distance, something crackles. A moment later a trail of light shoots into the sky and explodes high above them in reds and blues, lighting up the empty field. It’s a gorgeous sight, treetops and grass hills flashing into sight for a moment, and Jack tilts his head up to watch the next two explosions as they climb and burst overhead.

He pulls out his camera from the bag by Bitty’s sandals with one hand, balancing it awkwardly out of refusal to pull his arm from around Bitty. The colors are vibrant through the lens, the contrast sharper than in real life, and Jack snaps photo after photo. Eight fireworks later he loses concentration, lets the camera drop to the side and his eyes and hand wander back to Bitty. He finds Bitty already looking at him, easy but shy, and when a big blue firework explodes, Bitty's whole face is suddenly illuminated, has Jack captivated. They spend minutes with Bitty watching him and him watching Bitty, his face and his spread out body colored in reds and whites and blues, a show all for him.

Bitty’s swallows, and Jack can see his throat contract. Things come back into frame in quick succession: the back of Bitty’s knee curved over Jack’s thigh, damp and warm with sweat; Bitty’s hand in his, fingers long and slender; the vein in his neck, the top of his chest exposed over the neckline of his top, the strong flex in his thigh where his shorts ride up high.

When Jack takes a sudden breath, it’s sharper than he’d thought it’d be, audible in the silence. The tension snaps along with the fireworks. Bitty’s eyes are wide and his pupils are blown and Jack’s eyes flicker before he leans in, closes the gap between them and fits their mouths together. Bitty’s hand lets go of Jack’s and he lifts both of his to cup Jack’s face, leaning closer.

Weeks of built-up frustration rush back in a powerful wave, all-consuming. The kiss is sticky and dirty and hot, isn’t sweet, and Jack turns his body to face Bitty more and runs his hands over Bitty’s arms, searching for more contact. It’s too much, too soon; he feels like his insides are expanding, too big for his body to hold, temperatures running high and head spinning. He thinks this is how volcano eruptions begin. He needs to push Bitty away now if he wants to stop, if they want to take this slower.

Except Bitty runs his hands from Jack’s cheeks into his hair, threads them together behind Jack’s head and clutches the truck’s wall to push himself up, swinging one leg over Jack’s thigh to straddle his lap without pulling his face back. The change is immediate. Bitty was a warm body pressed to Jack’s side, his arm and his ribs and his hip; now he’s a hot weight in Jack’s lap, strong thighs bracketing him, chest pressing against his, arms woven around his neck. He’s surrounding Jack’s senses in the best way possible and Jack can do nothing else but breath him in and catch his hips, curling his hands into the shorts.

“Is this okay?” Bitty pulls back to ask, breathless and shaking. His eyes are searching, seeking approval, but he doesn’t look unsure. He looks, frankly, hungry. Turned on.

“ _Crisse --_ ” Jack gulps air, closes his eyes so Bitty’s blown pupils and swollen lips aren’t in view. Jack’s big hands are still curved over Bitty’s hip bones, though, and they keep him grounded to this reality. “It’s. I’m okay. Are you sure?”

“Am I _sure_?” Bitty asks, incredulous, and Jack opens his eyes to see Bitty looking at him quizzically. Bitty doesn’t add anything more, instead pushes his hips forward to sit right over Jack’s groin and grinds down. 

If Jack’s going to die, he’s fine doing it in a field in the middle of nowhere, Georgia, his dick hard and Bitty pushing his head into the crook of Jack’s neck to press openmouthed kisses to his throat. And he can’t get any air in his lungs, so he might die, and it’d be _fine_. “Okay -- I -- I get it, _dieu_. I just don’t want to go too far because you -- because you think we won’t have any other opportunities --”

Bitty pulls back again, licking his lips. Jack follows it, wild, and his lungs shrink to a dangerous degree. “I mean, we really _don’t_ , not until next semester at least, but. It’s not like -- I know haven’t -- _done anything_ , I don’t want to go _too far_ \--”

His face turns even redder and Jack gulps down air, gratified to see that Bitty’s capable of fleeting embarrassment. It means that he’s still thinking straight, still completely aware of his choices. Jack doesn’t mind doing whatever Bitty wants, but he doesn’t want them to go fast just so they can meet some kind of imaginary deadline. “I. Whatever you want, Bits.”

Bitty sighs, ducks his head, and then kisses Jack slower, sweet. Jack’s still so turned on it hurts and Bitty’s ass is grinding filthily right against his hard-on, so it misses innocent by a few turns. “I like this. Let’s keep doing this. You feel good and I wanna kiss you and I don’t wanna stop.”

“You feel good, too,” Jack says, sounds like a man drowning as he lets his hands brush slowly past Bitty’s hips and curl over the curve of his ass. Bitty is _ridiculously_ hot and the noise he makes in Jack’s ear at the touch is too tempting and Jack digs his fingers into the flesh, twists his thumbs in the loops of the shorts’ waistband. “Just stay -- like this.”

Bitty’s mouth finds his again, biting, and Jack tongues over the inside of Bitty’s bottom lip when Bitty rolls his hips once, tentative, then does it again when Jack chokes back a sound. His dick is hard, too, Jack can feel it, and the sensation is overwhelming. Unthinkingly, Jack’s hands shove Bitty’s ass forward and he grinds his own hips up and the two of them gasp, simultaneously.

Bitty can feel Jack’s hesitation, probably, because he darts his hands down to curve over Jack’s chest and pulls at his shirt frantically. “No, no, do that again -- _please_ \--”

He does, and Bitty whines low, bites down on Jack’s throat. Jack does it again, and then again; Bitty’s fingers scramble down, find the edge of his shirt and run up his bare skin, flatting down on his abs. Jack’s hands are completely spread over Bitty’s ass, now, the one constant feature in his fantasies, and their hips are moving together unevenly, breaths hot and damp. The fireworks are going off one after the other, cracking noises and cut off moans filling the silence, and the friction on Jack’s dick feels amazing but the overflow of desperate emotions is better, coating everything he touches. 

Bitty’s lips find his collarbone and graze upwards, sucking gently over his pulse point. Jack chokes, stills them suddenly, and Bitty whips his head back quickly to ask, “ _What’s wrong?_ ”, chest rising and falling quickly. He looks tousled and dirty and _radiating_ , red shining lips and bedraggled hair and sweat tracks at his temples. Jack wants to eat him whole.

“We should -- we should stop,” he says, strangled, eyes squeezing shut. His dick’s pulsing and he’s _this close_ to coming and they’re both going to be a mess too quickly. “Or we’re gonna wreck our pants.”

Bitty seems to think it over for exactly three seconds before he bucks his hips again, aiming directly for the straining bulge in Jack’s pants. Jack groans, and doesn’t cover for it in time. “I don’t _care_. We’ll get home after my folks anyway and I -- do you really wanna stop? Because we _can_ , but I don’t --”

Jack does not want to stop, and his jean shorts are dark gray, anyway, Bitty’s are dark blue. Another explosion goes off in the sky, and Bitty’s whole face shines. “ _No --_ _câlisse_ , get over here.”

Bitty’s mouth is slick and pliant when Jack kisses him, flattening his tongue, grinding them into each other in intervals. Bitty lasts a minute before the kiss turns sloppy, wet, and he turns his head, gasping, muffling his sounds in Jack’s fluttering skin and trying to catch his breath. Jack chases him up, searches for the heat through his pants, rides the high blindly.

Bitty comes first, breathless, painted in the fizzling white of a fading firework. Jack can feel him tremble, presses closer to catch him, comes after him mostly because of Bitty’s thigh clenching around him in a death-grip and Bitty’s mouth dropping open, beautiful and entirely too lewd. 

Bitty knocks his forehead forward against Jack’s. They’re both panting hard, covered in sweat, their bare skin sticking together. Bitty’s fingers are clenched tight in Jack’s shirt from the inside, knuckles brushing against the fine hair on Jack’s stomach, and Jack can’t hold himself together anymore, drops his head away from Bitty’s and back to face parallel to the sky, trying to finally catch his breath.

Bitty sags forward, uncurls his legs so his shins aren’t braced on the floor but curved diagonally, feet tucking in behind Jack’s back and under the folded sleeping bags. Their crotches aren’t touching like this, but their chests are pressed closer together. Jack slides his hands up and spreads them flat against Bitty’s back, over flexing muscles and sharp shoulder blades, to pull him into more of a hug.

“Good Lord,” Bitty breathes out finally, and the pronunciation of it is so Southern that the moment snaps in half, sexual tension uncoiling into feathery lightness in Jack’s chest. He pulls his head back forward and laughs heartily into Bitty’s neck.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” Bitty protests, but he’s giggling and pulling out his hands from under Jack’s shirt to curl them around Jack’s shoulder, relaxing into their hug. It’s too vertical to be a cuddle, but Jack’s never felt this safe and warm and loved all the same.

“No regrets,” Jack says quietly, lifting his head to look at Bitty through his eyelashes. “But you should know that this will be very uncomfortable, very fast, and you’re not allowed to blame me.”

Bitty’s answering smile is small but shining, a bursting light, a firework all on its own. “Unlikely that I would, sweetpea. I think this is probably worth the consequences.”

Not long after, the fireworks stop. Jack stays where he is, come drying in his underwear and nose tucked into Bitty’s neck and thighs cramping under the body weight. Bitty smells like fading deodorant and grass, though, and his body is a heavy comfort, and Jack has no desire to move.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


They sneak back past one in the morning. Bitty drives the entire way with a grimace -- Jack chirps him guiltlessly, his own thighs parted uncomfortably in the sticky pants, but their hands are laced over the gear stick and everything still seems so, so worth it. Bitty kills the engine and they creep back inside with their breath held, walking up the stairs on the tip of their toes. Jack would have been wrecked with nerves, probably, except Bitty’s culprit face is so endearing that he’s stifling snickers instead.

Bitty’s parents’ bedroom is the first door in the hallway, so they pass it mutely and hurry into Bitty’s bedroom, huddling against the wall as soon as the door closes. Bitty pushes Jack up and against it with a flat palm on the middle of his chest, a finger pressed to Bitty’s lips telling him to be quiet. Jack, too euphoric and high off the past few hours, bends down and kisses Bitty right over that finger, parting his mouth against it.

“You’re a menace,” Bitty whispers, eyes shining, but he lets the finger run over Jack’s bottom lip, hooks his thumb under Jack’s chin and kisses him soundly. 

They kiss for a long moment, before Jack tries to lean in further and the movement makes the fabric of his jeans shift against his skin, reminding him of their current situation. “We should probably shower,” Jack winces as he pulls back, and Bitty snorts inelegantly in reply.

“You know where your towels are. Guests get first shower, obviously, don’t bother arguing.”

Jack nods, doesn’t move. Bitty’s pupils are wide in the unlit room and Jack lifts a knuckle, rubs it over Bitty’s right temple. His skin is still tacky, would probably taste like salt if Jack were to put his mouth there. It was when he did it earlier, Bitty cradled against his chest and his hand wrapped around Bitty’s, steering their fingers to find the constellations in the sky. He knows that the bathroom is only two doors down, but it feels like moving away from Bitty is an impossible feat right now.

“Do you want --” Bitty swallows, darts his eyes down and then looks up again, unsure. “I know their alarms by heart, and mama would never enter a guest’s room uninvited, do you maybe --”

“Yes,” Jack says, immediately, doesn’t even pause to think it over. The thought of letting Bitty go for a little while is hard; the thought of falling asleep alone is unbearable. He’d spend the night staring at the walls and imagining he could hear Bitty tossing and turning across the hall, and he’s spent enough time sleeping just a little too far in the past year. “Absolutely. Come to the other room after your shower?”

Bitty chews his lip, but can’t bite back the smile. Jack feels like he’s been smiling for hours and hours, so he gets it. “I’d have to sneak back here early. She won’t bother you, but she’d _definitely_ come wake me for food preparations.”

“Okay,” Jack says, easy. Bitty waits, but Jack only blinks.

“Okay,” Bitty agrees eventually. Smiles. Pushes Jack out the door and into the quiet hall.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack waits for Bitty at the edge of the bed, feet splayed apart on the floor and hands fisted in the fabric of his sleep shorts. He almost stripped down to his boxers when he came back to the guest room, but it felt wrong. Pressuring, maybe. The water’s been running through the pipes for the past ten minutes, and Jack knows how long Bitty’s showers can be, has timed it by the number of songs he managed to sing through in the Haus, but this shower in particular seems to drag on forever. It’s too easy to let the anxiety make up its own version of tonight’s events when Bitty’s not by his side.

Fortunately, the water switches off, and Jack listens carefully for the faint sound of the bathroom door opening and then closing. It’s only a few minutes until the door to his own room cracks open, so cautiously that it might as well be done in slow motion, and Jack finds himself sitting up rigidly on the bed.

Bitty closes the door behind him with a concentrated expression, both hands on the knob, tongue sticking out between his teeth. His hair is wet, darker than usual. He’s barefoot, wearing a threadbare Samwell shirt and tiny, tiny blue shorts that cut off no more than three centimeters below the crease of his ass. There’s a slit on the side, teasing more of Bitty’s skin.

Jack stops breathing, can feel his entire face redden until it’s hot to the touch. His tongue seems to stick to the roof of his mouth when he tries to speak. “Euh -- uh. Bittle. The -- the shorts.”

Bitty’s hovering by the door, hesitant, and he wrinkles his nose at Jack’s words, looking down in confusion. He plucks at the blue garment as if to check if anything’s wrong with it, then looks back up at Jack, embarrassed. “Yeah? What about them? Do you -- want me to… change…?”

“No,” Jack hurries to oppose. Probably hurries a little too much, because the words are not quite out of Bitty’s mouth before Jack interrupts. He tries to look away from the shorts, from Bitty’s thighs in the shorts, and doesn’t really succeed. “No, I. I -- like them.”

Bitty stares at him blankly.

Jack swallows. Drags his eyes away from the firm muscles of Bitty’s legs and the glint of his hairs under the bedside lamp’s light and the suggestive curve of his ass beneath the loose blue. “I like them a little... too much.” 

Jack’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire and his palms are growing damp, twisted in his own shorts. Bitty’s eyes grow huge in response, body suspended by the door. Jack watches Bitty, tongue tied, and Bitty watches him back, and Jack doesn’t let himself look down at the blue shorts again, afraid he might never look away. It’s the most ridiculous kind of stalemate Jack’s even witnessed; the whole situation is just absurd.

Bitty’s lips wobble, and Jack can feel a bubble spread up his chest, and then they both, as if on cue, burst into hysterical, flustered giggles.

Bitty moves away from the door and comes closer to Jack, chest still heaving with stifled fits of laughter. Jack’s legs widen automatically, allowing Bitty to step between them; his knees press against Bitty’s outer thighs and his hands settle delicately over Bitty’s hips, fingers slipping between the hems of his pants and his shirt to a sliver of warm, bare skin. 

Bitty slowly, uncertainly, brings him forearms to drape over Jack’s shoulders, leans his upper body closer to Jack. Jack squeezes the flesh under his hands, and Bitty bites his lips. Their eyes meet. Jack’s chest still feels fluttery, like it’s ticklish; neither of them breaks the silence for a long moment.

Bitty’s lip quivers again, his eyes thinning. “This is weird.”

“What? No,” Jack tries to assure him, sounds desperate even to his own ears. His voice goes all funny, too. “No, not at all.”

Bitty looks at him like, _right_. Jack blinks mutely. They watch each other silently for another long moment, a bizarre version of the quiet game charged with built up tension and fuddled emotions. And then it’s like they just can’t help it -- Bitty cracks up and Jack tips over right with him.

“It is! It’s so weird,” Bitty chokes out, muffling the sounds of his maniacal giggles against the side of his arm. “We just had _sex_. You’re -- you. Two months ago I was looking at your photos of geese at Annie’s after practice and now we had sex in the back of a pickup truck.”

Jack isn’t sure if the situation truly is funny or if they’re just laughing out of sheer awkwardness. He likes it, either way; he’s never felt capable of tackling an uncomfortable situation head on, but Bitty makes him feel like they’re handling it together. Choosing to break the tension instead of letting it push them apart. And Bitty’s laughter is just -- Jack wouldn’t mind hearing it again, many times.

He considers Bitty’s words carefully, fingers spasming over the skin of Bitty’s waist. “We can fix that. I’ve got my camera. Wanna see pictures of Georgian hummingbirds instead?”

Bitty stares, and then bursts into laughter again, buries his head in Jack's neck. His wet hair leaves drops of water on Jack’s skin, on the collar of his shirt, and his face is smooth, freshly washed. Jack’s whole body feels warm and content with his touch, and he can feel the stretching of Bitty’s smile pressed against the column of his throat. 

“This is _not_ how I imagined my first time. Sure, Jack, yeah, why not. Let’s look at some birds.”

Oh, right. _Câlisse_. Jack kind of just… forgot about that part. He clears his throat, applying pressure to Bitty’s hips to move him just a few centimeters back, making sure to school his expression. They’re both a little too delirious with nerves and tiredness, and he doesn’t want this conversation to be taken lightly. “We should… talk about that. At some point. Preferably now.”

Bitty’s body moves back with Jack’s gentle push. His laughter dies off, and he lifts his head, stands taller. He’s completely red-faced, cheeks and forehead and even chin, but he still somehow manages to look miffed. “Is this gonna be a virginity talk? Do _not_ make me say the phrase social construct, Jack Zimmermann.”

“Uh. No? No. It doesn’t have to be. Just -- uh. Making sure. That everything we do is okay.”

Bitty’s eyes remain stern, and Jack holds them, doesn’t even blink. Bitty’s stance then melts little by little, until only the blush remains and he’s dropping his head and smiling shyly. “It was great. I’m -- ugh. I’m embarrassingly happy it’s happening with you, Jack. Even if we’re a little weird. Gosh, is it even sex if we were both clothed?”

Jack thinks about the stained briefs he shoved to the very bottom of his bag and winces. “Definitely sex, Bittle. Although we can --” he coughs, drops one of his palms away from Bitty to rub at his own knee. “Be. Less dressed. Next time.”

They then stare at each other once again, both blinking madly. Neither of them breaks the silence that stretches. 

“We’re ridiculous,” Bitty says finally, with utmost seriousness. “We should be able to talk about this. If we’re doing -- this. I... don’t know why it’s so hard.”

“Change,” Jack supplies, kind of dumbly. He’s mostly trying very hard not to think about _next time_ when his hand is on Bitty’s hips and Bitty’s hips are in these tiny shorts and Jack’s hand can just slide up under them. He’s not entirely aware of what he’s saying. “Like going from first period offensive to third period defensive. It’s strange at first. Takes adjustment.”

Then there’s _more_ silence, and Jack takes a moment to realize what he’s just said. Bitty seems to realize at about the same time. “Did you just --”

“Sorry,” Jack says quickly, cringing at himself. Why is he _so bad at this_. “Habit. Hockey isn’t romantic, I know. That. Uh. I meant… something else? About getting used to changes?”

“We can,” Bitty swallows, after a pregnant pause in which he looked down at his toes and then back at Jack and then back at his toes. “We can try... less clothes. And taking things one at a time. Like, like one game at a time, right? Let’s not think about the whole season. Shift by shift, game by game.”

Jack’s mouth drops, and he can’t help but bring both his hands up to Bitty’s waist, tugging him right into Jack’s chest, and think, _I am so, so in love with you_. Bitty’s eyes are glinting and Jack thinks, in a flash of elation, that Bitty _gets it_. That Bitty gets Jack, and he doesn’t mind. “Yeah -- yeah. That’s good. And, I mean. It’s been a while for me, too, so. We’ll see what we’re comfortable with.”

At that moment, Jack knows what he wants: to strip Bitty down, and sprawl him out on the bed, and kiss every centimeter of his body from the knob at the base of his ankles to the pads of his fingertips; he wants to run his hands up Bitty’s calves, up his thighs, over his small waist and his ribcage and the soft part of his underarms, until he finally tangles their hands together; he wants to find where Bitty’s ticklish, and if he has scars, and in what spots his sweat pools when he’s just about to come.

He doesn’t say any of that. He knows that’s way too intense. Instead, he says, “Bitty. Can I kiss you?”, because, at the end, when all of it is broken down, that’s what he wants.

Bitty smiles, wraps his arms around Jack’s neck, and doesn’t answer. He simply kisses Jack first.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Lying down together is -- not as natural as Jack imagined it. At some point he slides his hands down to Bitty’s ass and pulls, with the intention of encouraging Bitty into his lap, but Bitty only loses balance and almost breaks Jack’s nose with his forehead. A while after that Bitty is the one to halt the kiss and shove Jack onto the bed by his shoulders, but that just leaves Jack lying with his legs still on the floor over the side of the bed, and no suitable room for Bitty to join him.

And then when Jack scoots back towards the headboard on his elbows, and Bitty sits down next to him, neither of them really knows what to do with their limbs. They find themselves reaching out and pulling back and stammering around their actions -- more than they expected, Jack thinks, because Bitty looks as unsure as Jack feels.

“You slept on my shoulder on roadies before,” he says, at some point, largely puzzled by how hard it is to go from kissing while sitting to just lying down together. He doesn’t remember thinking about it so much with other people. Then again, he doesn’t remember his heart ever hammering in his chest at the mere thought of sharing a bed with anyone else.

“It was hardly _cuddling_ ,” Bitty argues, sputtering. 

They figure it out, eventually. Jack lies down on his side and Bitty shuffles down until he’s lying down, as well, which leaves them stretched in parallel lines on the bed, heads pillowed on their arms. Jack reaches out, then, curling an arm around Bitty’s waist, and Bitty falters but inches a little closer to put his palm flat over Jack’s heart. Jack tangles their ankles together, as they were under the dinner table, and Bitty bends his knee into the gap between Jack’s legs, and it’s good. They're good. Their bodies flattened together from chests to toes, their noses brushing against each other. They don’t have to so much as whisper to hear each other from this proximity.

They turn off the bedside lamp sometime after two, still curled up in the middle of the bed. Jack says, maybe four times, “We should sleep,” and Bitty says, about three more, “Mother’s waking me up _so_ early,” but it’s a lot easier said than done. With the lights off, with Bitty’s eyelashes sweeping over Jack’s cheek and Jack’s hands tracing patterns on the back of Bitty’s shirt -- sleep doesn’t seem like a possibility. The reality of being so close together, of this private intimacy, is intoxicating, thrilling. 

The urge to keep talking is hard to ignore. Vulnerability doesn’t seem so intimidating under the guise of the darkness, anchored by each other. Trading whispered truths feels safe, and surreal, and too tempting to dismiss in favor of sleep, so that's what they do. They talk all night long.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“You really _did_ show me a lot of pictures of geese, honey.” 

“I wanted your opinion!” 

“All of my photography knowledge comes from Ariana Grande’s Instagram feed, Jack. Really. You should’ve gone to Lardo.” 

“I did go to Lardo. I just…” Jack can feel blush climbing up the back of his neck, where Bitty’s hand is currently toying with his hair. “I just wanted yours, too.” 

Bitty tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “Were you -- were you _flirting_ with me?” 

“...The jury's still out on that.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“I’m really seeing the amount of coffee I bought you in a new light, too.” 

“Oh my _god_!” 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“-- and okay, I knew, rationally, that Samwell is liberal and all, but -- Jack. Y’all are bros.”

Jack leans back at that, blinking at Bitty. “What does that even _mean_. We’re not -- bros!”

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “Have you _seen_ Holster? Like, come on, might as well put him on the front page of _bro magazine_.”

Well, okay. Point. “Fair enough.” 

Bitty smiles, but it fades away quickly, molds into a troubled frown. “It was terrifying,” he whispers. “When I walked in with that pie, and -- I don’t know. I don’t think I thought y’all might _beat me up_ or anything, but…”

Jack feels sick, right down to the pit of his stomach. His chest grows tight. “But that’s exactly what you thought.” 

Bitty looks guilty, turns his cheek deeper into the pillow so only the left side of his face is visible in the faint moonlight. “Yeah.”

Jack spent so much of Bitty’s freshman year concerned with himself, with the game. He doesn’t even remember if he said anything to Bitty after he came out -- doesn’t remember if they really talked about it between the two of them, or if he heard through the other guys. It just didn’t matter to him, and so he never stopped to think about how much it mattered to Bitty. How Bitty was afraid of his _own team_ while Jack was handling his personal bullshit. “Bitty -- I know I’ve said this before, but. Not enough, probably. I’m sorry. For how I treated you --” 

“Oh no, no! It’s okay --!” 

“It’s not,” Jack insists, soberly. “It’s not. I should’ve -- _merde_ , I should’ve asked. Or _something_. And the whole checking thing --” he exhales harshly, closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” 

Bitty lifts his face from the pillow, shifts closer. He kisses the tip of Jack’s nose before Jack even notices him moving and tucks himself against Jack’s chest. “You are so very much forgiven, Jack Laurent.” 

“I know,” Jack sighs, tightening his arms around Bitty, braver in the dark. He knows because this is who Bitty is: the kindest person Jack knows. “But I’m gonna try to keep earning that forgiveness.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“-- we saw a few different doctors, I think. Psychologists, psychiatrists. The one who eventually diagnosed me was my mom’s friend from California.” 

Bitty’s eyes are trained on Jack’s, hand fisted beneath his chin. “How old were you?”

“I don’t -- ten? Maybe eleven? I wasn’t in minors yet. Don’t know if I would’ve gone along with it if I was. And the doctor referred me to someone back in Canada, gave me prescriptions, and then -- well. You know how that story ends.” 

Jack watches Bitty’s face, waits for the moment of recognition, but Bitty’s face doesn’t really shift. “Actually… well, I guess I know the rumor version, and the Haus version. They’re not very detailed, and -- mostly, neither of those are _your_ version.” 

Bitty’s eyes are soft, open. Nonjudgmental. Jack doesn’t really feel like he deserves that, even now, but is so grateful for it nonetheless.

“We can talk about it, sometime, if you want. I can tell you the whole thing. Not now, though. It’s not --” he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly so that he wouldn’t blow air right on Bitty’s face. “I’m not proud of it.” 

“Jack… I don’t care. All that really matters is where you are now. I’m just interested in how you got here, ‘s all.”

“Alright,” Jack agrees, tugs Bitty’s fist from beneath his chin to kiss the back of his clenched fingers. “Some other time.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Remember when we baked that pie for Professor Atley’s class?” 

“Yeah,” Jack smiles. “What about it?”

“That’s when I knew.”

Jack’s smile thaws into a frown, and he searches Bitty’s eyes for an explanation. “Knew what?” 

He thinks Bitty might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness, and Bitty doesn’t help by bringing up a hand to hide his face. “That I -- that I. Liked you.” 

_Oh_. Jack blinks, surprised, and then leans in to press their lips together, cupping Bitty’s cheeks between his palms. Bitty smiles against Jack’s mouth and then angles his face to deepen the kiss, his lips soft under Jack’s, yielding. Jack pulls back, slowly, doesn’t move his hands away.

“I had a dream about that day.” 

“Yeah?” Bitty asks softly, nuzzling his cheek against Jack’s hand. “Was it nice?” 

Jack realizes his mistake almost immediately. “It was -- uh, it was. Nice. Yeah.” 

Bitty frowns. Jack tries to smooth out his face into something unsuspicious, but probably doesn’t do a very good job. This time when Bitty turns bright red it’s unmistakable, even with almost no light. “Oh my goodness. When you say dream you mean _dream_.” 

Jack keeps his face blank, tries not to blush in response. He’d rather keep his dignity while taking the chirping. “I have no idea what you mean.” 

Bitty lets out a cackle, grabs Jack’s hand from over his cheek. “Who woulda thought! _Baking_ turns Jack Zimmermann on!” 

Jack uses the freed hand to reach out and tickle Bitty in the soft part beneath his lungs, as a form of retaliation. “I think it was more _you_ than the pie, Bittle.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“I feel like I’m driving on neutral,” Jack whispers, words tumbling out of his mouth in heavy blocks. “Like. Like I was walking in a straight line for twenty-five years to get somewhere, and now that I’m there…”

Bitty frowns.

“It’s like,” Jack inhales slowly, tries again. “It’s like in hockey -- when you skate past a check and you manage to take control of the puck and pass it on for an assist but now you gotta wait to see if it went in, there’s nothing you can do? Or. _Crisse_ , I’m fucking this up.”

"You're not," Bitty insists, tugging at Jack's fingers with his own. His face is so close. "It's okay, sweetheart, keep going. So the check is... the draft, when you were young? And going for an assist -- that’s making it into the league?” 

Jack wants to kiss him. He’s humiliated to find that he kind of also wants to cry with relief, a little. “Yeah. I guess. And until the puck hits the net, or -- doesn’t, I mean, until this season really starts, there’s nothing I can do. To prove myself, or --. I just need to wait.”

Bitty’s quiet for a moment, his index fingers tracing up and down Jack’s thumb. “It’s more complicated than that, though, isn’t it? Because even if you score, even if you win, there’s always another game. Even if you’ve got the Cup, there’s always the next season. Metaphorically and otherwise.”

“Okay.”

“So what I’m saying is, even if the season starts, and you play your best, and even if you win -- you’re always gonna want to prove yourself even more, Jack. That’s who you are. And the… anxiety thing, I think, where you never feel good _enough_. So will you always be waiting?”

Jack thinks about it for a long moment. “But what if --”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“-- it’s ridiculous! I won’t back down until you admit I’m right.”

Jack sighs. “We are not having the pecan discussion _again_ , Bittle.”

“ _Pecan_! Lord, you Canadians are freaks. If Moomaw could hear you now.”

“We were here first, you know,” Jack taunts, poking Bitty in the chest. “Maybe _you’re_ the ones who say everything wrong.”

This is a terrible miscalculation on his part, Jack discovers minutes later.

“Abo _ut_.”

“Stop it.”

“A _bout_.”

“Bittle!”

“What? I’m gonna get it right! Ab _out_.”

Jack has to shove a pillow over his head to muffle his laughter, trying desperately to stay quiet. “No!”

Bitty grabs the pillow from his hands, hovering above Jack’s head while leaning on one elbow. “You know, I read somewhere that accents are like -- your mouth’s fonts, or something.” 

“What.” 

“Yeah!” 

Jack snorts, shoves Bitty back onto the mattress. “Bits, that sounds like something Shitty would say. While high.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“No, but seriously,” Jack says gravely, and Bitty’s whole face grows somber, turning big eyes on Jack as he waits for him to continue. “These shorts.”

Bitty guffaws, burying his mouth in Jack's short sleeve. “Jack! Come on!”

“No, really. Are these legal? Do you wear these in the streets?”

“You’ve been outside!” Bitty smacks his arm, pulling back. “You’ve seen how hot it is! How can you expect a boy to cover any more skin than necessary in this weather?”

“I definitely don’t _expect_ you to cover any skin,” Jack deadpans, and Bitty nearly shrieks with laughter, shoving Jack's shoulder hard enough to topple him onto his back.

“Alright, smartass! I guess you forgot sweating _literal buckets_ when we were walking around.”

“ _Repressed_ , you mean. War flashbacks. It’s very serious.”

“Oh, hur hur,” Bitty rolls his eyes, but his mouth is still quirked into a smile. “Now think I would’ve taken you _running_ instead of just walking. You can see how the shorts become an essential article of clothing.”

Jack turns back onto his side, frowning. “How _do_ you run out here? I thought I might choke, the air is so muggy.”

Bitty yawns, burrowing into Jack’s side. “Only really freakin’ early, before the sun is fully up. Or in the gym.”

Jack turns his head over his shoulder to watch the window. The sky is still dark behind the parted curtains, but it isn’t pitch black anymore. “So… now? Is now the right time?”

Bitty’s squinting when Jack turns his head back to face him. “You… wanna go running?”

“Well… it’s not like I can do my entire workout, but running could be good. And I like running with you.”

Bitty’s lips curve into a soft, shy smile. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Jack smiles back, reaching out to thumb the corner of Bitty’s mouth. “I always asked you to run with me at Samwell, don’t you remember?”

“I do. I… assumed it was because you wanted me to be in shape? Being the weakest?”

Jack blinks, his thumb pausing its movement. “What? Bittle, you run faster than everyone in the team. I’m pretty sure you still run faster than me, and I've been training for the NHL this summer. I just wanted to run with you.” 

Or, well -- at the time he told himself that it was because Bitty challenged him, made him do better. And it was true, but at some point he stopped thinking about it entirely. He just invited Bitty because he wanted to run with Bitty, and explaining it to himself didn’t occur to him.

The room isn’t as dark now, with the sky growing marginally lighter, and Bitty’s spreading flush is obvious. “Good Lord. Alright. A whole bunch of things seem different when they’re not just in my head.” He then hauls himself up into a sitting position, peering down at Jack who’s watching him from down on the bed, confused. “Well? Come on then. Seems like it’s about five, and mother would be up cooking by seven, at best. We can do an hour run before the sun comes up.”

Jack straightens up instantly, pleased. “Really? Aren’t you too tired?”

“Excuse me,” Bitty huffs, jabbing Jack’s leg with his big toe. “I remember something about how you said I’m _faster than you_? Aren’t _you_ tired?”

“Yes,” Jack answers seriously. He’s been awake for about twenty-four hours, some of which were spent on a plane, and he’s emotionally exhausted. But his entire body is buzzing; it feels a lot like postgame adrenaline, but its center spreads out from his chest.

Bitty smiles. “Yeah. So am I. We’re gonna crash real hard later, I think. But the energy from the run will keep me up through the first three pies, at least, so that’s good.” He flings his legs off the side of the bed and offers out a hand. Jack takes it, tugs on it to graze his lips against Bitty’s wrist, and then lets go. He’s smart enough not to ask anything about _the first three pies_ , at least. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Growing up in Canada and spending most of his adult life in Massachusetts has conditioned Jack to expect some sort of reprieve from the heat once the sun goes down. Georgia doesn’t seem to adhere to these terms; the air in the streets of Madison seems to stand still even when it’s still dark out, offering no shelter from the high temperature and especially not from the humidity. While there’s no sun to be beating down on the back of their necks, it still feels like they’re running through thick liquid. Jack has sweat dripping down his eyebrows into his eyes before they even make it to one kilometer.

Bitty leads them into a slow jog down his street, in the opposite direction they’ve wandered the previous day, and picks up the pace until they’re running by the side of one of the main roads. Jack assumes it’d be more busy with cars any other time, but on Saturday, at five in the morning of the Fourth of July, the streets are virtually deserted. Their path is lit by small rings of street lights on the concrete, and is accompanied by the sole sound of sneakers hitting the ground and bugs buzzing.

On surface level, Jack would probably categorize this run as one of the worst in his life. He constantly feels like he’s choking, there are trails of sweat running down his body all the way to the damp margins of his socks, and he’s having trouble regulating his breath. But Bitty, who’s probably used to these abysmal conditions, pushes him to maintain good speed and distracts him with blithe small talk, making it hard not to enjoy their time. Jack doesn’t find as much comfort in the run itself as he usually does, but even then it’s still relaxing: stretching out his muscles, feeling the burn in his lungs once they hit five kilometers, shaking the haze of sleep deprivation and stiffness out of his joints.

The house is still quiet when they climb up the stairs leading to the backdoor. Jack makes them both drink three glasses of water one after the other, standing silently together in the kitchen. He can hear faint noises coming from the second floor, which Bitty tells him is probably his mother waking up from her alarm clock and Coach grunting his way back to another thirty minutes of sleep. They have a short squabble about who will get first shower, both defending their birthright manners in whispered arguments, and Jack ultimately wins. They ascend upstairs in complete silence and separate in the middle of the hallway, exchanging heated looks.

Jack checks his phone while he waits for his turn in the shower. He has two messages from his mother, making sure that everything is going well, several from Tater, and a few from the group chat, mainly revolving around something called _So You Think You Can Dance_ and around everyone’s plans for Independence Day. He almost types a few chirping messages about dragging Bitty to practice while on vacation, until he remembers that he’s told none of their friends that he’s there. He doesn’t think Bitty told anyone, either.

The water shuts off, then, so Jack turns the phone screen off and shoves it in his pocket instead of letting himself overthink it. He doesn’t strip out of any of his clothes in the room, feels too sticky and disgusting, just grabs a change of clothes and his shower bag. The bathroom’s already empty by the time Jack crosses the hallway, the mirror fogged from Bitty’s shower.

Jack cleans off quickly, in practiced motions. He leaves the towel hanging around his neck while he brushes his teeth and then while he tugs his clothes on. He puts his arms through his top, feeling fairly proud of himself for packing a white Nordiques tank top with their blue and red print, wonders if Bitty will chirp him for being appropriately festive even in a Québécois shirt. Then he moves to pull pants over his boxers, and finds the counter empty. Because he forgot to take pants when he left the room. _Shit_.

Which leaves two options. The obvious one is ducking across the hall and risk being seen. Jack looks down at his briefs, which are solidly white and especially tight, and blanches. His skin is still slightly damp, he knows for a fact that Bitty’s parents are already somewhat awake, and the scenario that begins playing in his head is the pinnacle of mortification. On the other hand, the second option --

Jack reaches out for his running shorts, digs the phone out of the right pocket, and texts: _bittle. sos._

He knows Bitty usually checks his social media in the morning, so thankfully the reply comes less than thirty seconds later. _What happened??? Don’t you dare die in our shower, my mother would KILL ME._

Jack sighs. _no death. just forgot to bring pants_ , and then adds, _can you grab a pair for me? they’re in my bag_ , to which Bitty replies, _lol dying. Yeah, hold on_.

It takes him longer than Jack assumed it would. When the knock sounds against the door Jack has already paced the small room twice, feeling trapped and restless. He’s quick to shove his hand through the crack in the door and grab the shorts, pulling them on immediately. The door closes in the meanwhile, which Jack assumes means Bitty left to resume his adventures on Twitter.

When Jack walks back into the guest room the window is open and Bitty is sitting on the chair by it, holding a folded piece of paper. The bedside lamp is turned on, the sky now a dark blue blending into a mellow orange, not yet bright enough to light the room by itself. Jack runs the towel through his hair and says, “Alright, the pants are too easy, so I’m giving you a quota. Three chirps of your choice before you’re done. Start whenever.”

He drops the towel on the bed and turns to face Bitty, only to find his eyes angled down, fiddling with the paper in his hand. When he looks up, he looks rueful. 

“Um, Jack -- I swear I didn’t mean to snoop or anything. But this fell out of your bag when I grabbed your pants?” He hands Jack the paper. Jack knows what it is before he unfolds it, but he does it anyway, his hands moving automatically. It’s a torn page out of _Hockey News_ featuring a perfume advertisement and scribbles of ink in Jack’s handwriting. Jack sits down on the corner of the bed closest to Bitty slowly, gripping the paper without saying anything.

Bitty, probably panicking as a result of Jack’s reticence, starts babbling. “I’m -- honey, I’m so sorry -- I can’t even read it since it’s all in French, I just don’t want you to think that I was goin’ through your things --”

“Bittle,” Jack cuts him off, trying to take control of the situation before it escalates any further. The paper is in his bag as a reminder to himself, and it’s served its purpose; it just doesn’t make the conversation they need to have any less difficult. “It’s fine. It’s… it’s kind of for you, anyway.”

Bitty’s mouth shuts instantly, and his whole demeanor perks up. “For me? Like -- like a letter? It’s a bit short, I guess, and in French -- and all those question marks --?”

“No. It’s... “ Jack takes a deep breath, leans forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “I’m… not the best at talking about things, Bitty. I told you this before.”

“I remember,” Bitty says gently, grabbing hold of the bottom edges of the chair to scoot it closer to the bed. His voice deepens, slows. He can probably tell by Jack’s tone that this isn’t shaping up to be a lighthearted chat. “And I remember telling you it’s all a matter of practice. Right?”

“Right,” Jack exhales all of the air he breathed in, measures three, four, five seconds. It leaves his lungs feeling hollow. “So. After we -- after I -- when I was in Providence, and I didn't know how to talk about everything that happened. I had a session with my therapist.”

“You’ve mentioned them before,” Bitty acknowledges, looking intrigued. 

“Yeah. She’s nice. I wanna say that she’ll like you, but she already does, really.”

“Your therapist knows who I am?” Bitty asks, and his face goes kind of blank, like he doesn’t know what to think of it. His intonation goes off-pitch as well.

Jack tries not to flush, rubs the back of his neck stiffly. “I, um. I talked about you pretty often this year, Bittle.”

At least, he thinks, it’s always so easy to tell when Bitty’s blushing too. “Oh. That’s. Wow.”

“So,” Jack presses on, determined to get this over with. “She does this thing -- she has me write lists -- and I thought, you know. Maybe if I could write everything I wanted to talk about beforehand I could actually. Do it. When we met.”

“Right.”

“Which is now,” Jack clarifies, like that was somehow unclear.

“Yeah,” Bitty affirms, but then neither of them says anything for a very long moment. The window view over Bitty’s shoulder is growing brighter, the sun rising slowly, and Jack takes that moment to pull himself together and breathe.

“Would you like --” Bitty ventures, eventually, with cautiousness that is plainly obvious. “Would you like to read it to me? Or… we can talk about it. However you want.”

Jack glances down at the paper, now slightly crumpled at its edges, and at the questions written on it. He knows the answers to several of them now, after they spent the entire night talking -- he knows that Bitty likes him, that Bitty _has_ liked him for most of the school year, and Bitty knows that Jack likes him just as much. That Jack likes him more than he knows what to do with. Jack also knows which questions he hasn’t dared bring up yet, and exactly why he’s been avoiding it. The heaviness of it sits like lead weight in his breastbone. 

“No, it’s just. Bitty --” Jack slides closer to the edge of the bed, close enough that his knees now touch Bitty’s. “The season starts late next month, you know. Things are gonna be different.”

Just like that, Bitty’s whole face falls, and then shutters completely. Jack’s seen Bitty hide his feelings away before, but not like this, a one-eighty from the open attentiveness he was displaying before. Bitty’s expression betrays nothing, and the only body language Jack has to go off of is Bitty pressing his knees together and clasping his palms between them. It doesn’t tell him much about where he went wrong. “Oh. Yes. Jack -- I know. It’s okay.”

Which only serves to confuse Jack further, because if it’s okay, why does Bitty look like he’s bracing for a hit? “Are… are you sure? Because... because it can be hard, and I can see how unhappy having to hide in Georgia makes you, so are you sure you’ll be okay with it back in school, too…?”

Bitty lifts his eyes. They’re blown wide, and widening further the longer he looks at Jack. “Wait, you mean… you’ll be alright with that? With us? Even when the season starts?”

“What?” Jack recoils, and as he stares at Bitty in shock, he has the sudden, horrifying realization that they are _not_ , in fact, on the same page, as Jack has thought so far. “Bitty, what -- _of course_ , I mean, this is what I want. What did you think…? You -- us, I mean -- I want it. A lot. It’s just that with hockey, and -- my career -- it can’t be public, not right now.”

Bitty’s still wide-eyed, and he says, so quickly that the words become jumbled together in one long string of syllables, “I don’t care.”

Jack blinks, feels like it’s necessary to reiterate. “No, we need to talk about this. Seriously talk about this, and establish boundaries, and --. It means that you can’t tell even Lardo, or the boys, and if we want to meet while you’re in school you’ll have to lie about it --” his gut sinks lower and lower with every word spoken. This is exactly why he was putting off this conversation. Every precondition makes him realize just how much he’s asking of Bitty, when the only thing he’s being offered in return is _being with Jack long-distance_. “And your YouTube thing -- you’ll have to constantly think about what you’re saying there, and censor your entire life --”

Bitty brings Jack’s rant to an end by getting up from the chair in one swift movement, grabbing Jack by the shoulders and shaking him just enough to get the point across. “Jack. I was the local football coach’s gay son, in a small town in Georgia. I _know_ what being closeted means. I lived like this eighteen years, and still do, by choice, every break. I know I’ll have to think about everything that comes out of my mouth seven times before I say it, and lie about a hella lot of things, and keep stuff to myself. I know because I've _done it_. And -- I've always done it out of shame, or fear, which was incentive enough, so doing it to be with someone I --” he pauses, bites his lip. “I’ve never done it to be with someone like _you_. That’s worth it. God, Jack, of _course_ it’s worth it. I just didn’t think --”

Jack searches Bitty’s eyes, covers one of his hands with his own. “What? You didn’t think what?”

Bitty’s face falls, morphs into something that is maybe resignation. His hand twitches on Jack’s shoulder, beneath Jack’s palm. “I didn’t think you’d want… I mean, off-season is one thing, but when there’s hockey, and it’s your rookie year, I didn't think you’d want -- a distraction.”

“You’re not a distraction,” Jack says, plainly. “Or, you might be, but we’ll make it work. I don’t care. Bits, how can you not know -- after yesterday --. I just wanna be with you. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Jack watches, very tentatively pleased with his reassurance, as Bitty’s wide-eyed look grows hopeful. “Me too. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jack chirps in response. It’s a passable chirp at best. He’s feeling too weak in the knees to care. “And I wanted -- if you wanted, that is. To invite you? I’d like to see you before school starts. Maybe we can change your plane ticket, and you’ll --”

“Yes,” Bitty interrupts, decisive.

“-- stay with me,” Jack finishes, a grin already spreading. “I was thinking about the week before? You gotta be at the Haus by the second week of August, so you can come up and I’ll drive you to Samwell, after --”

“Jack,” Bitty interrupts again. He squeezes Jack’s shoulders, tilting his head down to Jack’s eye level. “ _Yes_. Plus, you’re turning twenty-five that week, and I gotta take advantage of you before you’re officially an old man, right?”

Jack hadn’t really thought about it, too caught up in the logistics of seeing Bitty again before their lives are taken over by professional hockey and college hockey and Bitty’s studying, but now that he pictures it, there’s no other way he’d like to spend his birthday. The idea of having Bitty there when he wakes up to begin his twenty-fifth year seems like a good omen for the rest of his years to come. 

“My mom says we Zimmermanns age like fine wine,” he says. At some point he’ll be confident enough to tell Bitty his thoughts without worrying he’s coming on too strong, but not yet. He’s emboldened by the thought that _some point_ may not be that far away. “So you might like me even as an old man. Have hope.”

“Gracious,” Bitty huffs out a laughter, and then he tugs Jack up from the bed, cupping his cheeks. “You’re -- so much more than I thought you’ll be. Which is really saying something, lemme tell you.”

Jack peers over his shoulder at the closed door, very briefly, can’t help but take the risk and bend his knees to kiss Bitty, pressing a soft one to his forehead and a lingering one to his mouth. 

“So we’re in this,” he says, putting enough emphasis on the words to make sure his naturally flat tone doesn’t overlay his intention. “Together.”

“Yeah. Together,” Bitty echoes, and his cheeks dimple beautifully. _Bon dieu_. Jack doesn’t think his body was built to carry this much affection. “Go us. Go team.” 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Bitty heads straight for the kitchen once they go downstairs, immediately takes charge of one corner of the counter like it’s a well-practiced foot drill implanted in him. The entire room looks set up for it, too: there are cooking supplies and kitchen appliances covering every flat surface of the kitchen and the dining area aside from that square of counter space, scrubbed so clean that it’s shining. 

Mrs. Bittle doesn’t turn to them, only tells Jack, “Good morning!” over her shoulder, and then promptly tells Bitty, “I was just about to come wake you up -- I think we should cover cold dishes first, then cut up and season whatever needs to go on your daddy’s grill --” 

Bitty nods along, simultaneously rearranging things around him. Jack stays standing at the doorway and feels a lot like he did the previous night after dinner -- bewildered, shamefully unhelpful, and entirely out of place. He’s hungry, too, but his survival instincts tell him that stepping into the war zone mapped out between the kitchen counters would be a grave mistake.

The screen door glides open, and Coach comes in through the front door carrying two cardboard boxes balanced on top of each other. He looks tired, eyes glazed over and drowsy, and makes an unnecessarily big semicircle that strays as far away from the kitchen as possible while still passing through. He then takes one look at Jack, who is still blocking the way to the rest of the house and staring with mild dread at the kitchen, and asks, eyes narrowed, “You ever grilled before?”

Jack freezes, can’t help but feel like he’s failing a test when he says, “Uh, at school, a little, sir. Not really.”

Coach adjusts the boxes in his grip. He doesn’t react in any external way, only humphs quietly and says, “Alright then. Grab that package of skewers off the island. We’ve got about ten pounds of meat that needs sticking.”

Jack thinks that he’s probably exaggerating, but as it turns out, he’s not. Jack takes the package and follows Coach outside to the backyard, where a folding table has been set up by the grill and is covered in more meat than Jack’s seen in one place maybe ever. There are burgers and drumsticks and ribs, pork and hotdogs, and Jack thinks of Bitty’s response to his parents’ Canadian barbecue and realizes that while on paper this is a similar event, in reality this is a whole new ballgame. 

Coach puts the boxes down and comes to stand by the table, pulls the large pile of hotdogs closer to them. Jack blinks and, after a moment of uncertainty, takes a place by his side. Coach rips open the skewers package, passes a handful to Jack and asks, “So you all signed with those Providence boys?”; Jack nods, is grateful for the easy excuse to absorb himself in a very impassioned conversation about NHL training routines mostly constructed out of laconic sentences. 

There’s a long stretch of silence after that conversation trails off, during which they work shoulder to shoulder, sliding meat onto skewers and setting them aside to be grilled later. Jack is good with silences, only feels like they’re awkward when it’s clear that the other party is waiting for the conversation to be picked up again, but he’s reasonably sure that both Coach and him are perfectly alright with the silence. Coach even looks more awake now, whistling something that Jack doesn’t recognize under his mustache. 

They’re just finishing the pile of hotdogs and moving to the pile of corn cobs when Coach says, “You’re good for Junior, you know.”

Jack jerks, his eyes flitting up from the cob in his hand to Coach’s face. Coach isn’t looking at him, though, and Jack can’t tell what exactly he means by that. “Oh? Thank you...?”

Coach nods. It seems like it’s more to himself than to Jack. He picks up another corn cob and says, “Yeah, good influence. Junior’s a strong athlete, you know, has good discipline, but having a friend like you -- I think it’s good for him.” 

Jack, well, he’s not sure what to say to that. Because on the one hand, he gets it: he gets being a coach, training athletes all day, and he definitely knows what wanting your son to be at his best looks like. He doesn’t think Coach is trying to criticize Bitty, but rather to encourage beneficial habits. Being around good athletes makes you a better athlete; Jack knows that. 

But on the other hand, he knows in his guts that it wouldn’t be something Bitty wants to hear. And it really wouldn’t matter how it was intended when Jack knows how it would be received -- that’s something he’s learned about his own father after a long time in therapy. So he thinks for a moment before saying, “Having a friend like Eric is good for me, too. For all of us. He makes us better players.”

Coach looks up at him. Jack can’t tell if he’s surprised by the response or not; his face is just as unreadable as ever. “Y’think so?” 

If there is anything Jack knows with complete confidence, it’s hockey. “Yes. He’s the fastest player I know and he’s got some real strengths on the ice, but mostly, hockey is a team sport. And Eric makes us a better team, a stronger team. We play better for it.”

It reminds him of what Coach Hall said back in junior year, before Jack even gave Bitty a fair chance. _He makes you a better player,_ Jack thinks, and then thinks, I _play better for it._ Bitty was worried earlier that morning about being a distraction, and Jack -- he wasn’t worried about Bitty distracting him, exactly, but maybe he was more worried about dividing his attention during the season than he’d let on. He can’t really help it. But he realizes now that he’s not feeding Coach empty words. _I play_ better _for it. Being with Bitty is going to make me_ better. 

Coach looks down, fingers still on the wooden stick he’s holding, and there’s something on his face that Jack's seen on his own father before but has probably, he knows now, never read correctly. “Yeah. He woulda made a helluva quarterback.” He looks up to the exterior wall of the house, as if he’s looking for Bitty through the windows even though his wife and son aren't in line of view. “Well. He’s a hell of a hockey player, at least. And I guess it makes him happier.”

Jack blinks, nods mutely. They go back to working in silence, and Jack loses himself in the repetitive movements. He thinks -- well. He won’t pretend to understand the deep complexities of Bitty’s relationship with his father -- would be hypocritical to pretend that, when his relationship with his own is so intricate -- but he has a feeling like it might be okay between the two of them, eventually, anyway.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


By the early noon hours, every corner of the house smells like baking. Jack abandons his post in the yard to come find Bitty under the clever guise of craving a glass of fresh juice. Bitty and his mother are exactly where Jack’s seen them last; the most noticeable differences are that their faces are flushed from the heat in the kitchen, there are streaks of flour through Bitty’s hair, and the counterspace now holds not only supplies but several platters and pans of freshly-cooked food.

Bitty stops his task of peeling boiled eggs to crane his head back, eyes finding Jack’s, and the smile he extends is blinding. Jack reaches for the lemonade pitcher Coach directed him to, looking for an excuse to hide what he’s sure is a very revealing expression on his own face.

“I see you survived a morning with Coach,” Bitty says, wiping his hands on a towel and coming to stand by Jack at the faraway corner of the island.

“You weren’t joking,” Jack pours a glass of lemonade and pushes it towards Bitty with a knuckle. “About barbecues in Georgia.”

“Good Southerners never joke about cookouts,” Bitty says, keeping a straight face. He takes the glass. Jack tightens his grip around his own to resist the temptation to brush the flour streaks away.

Jack looks around the kitchen more closely while they drink. The expensive olive oil his mother told him to buy as a gift for Mrs. Bittle is set by the stove. Mrs. Bittle herself is mixing what seems to be a salad in a big bowl, there’s a pile of burger buns in the corner to her right, and a line of steaming pies is stretched over the counter beneath the kitchen window. Jack moves closer to inspect them. He recognizes at least two as peach with certainty, but there are a few others whose fillings he can’t pinpoint by eye. 

Both of the peach pies are covered by meticulously laid lattice, even lines crisscrossing each other elegantly. One of the lattices is more diagonal and its crust edges more twisted, however, while the other’s lines are more perpendicular and its crust looks like a braid.

“This one’s yours, right?” Jack asks, setting his glass aside and pointing towards the diagonal lattice. They both look so professional. Jack wonders if Bitty will let him take photos of them. “And the other’s your mom’s?”

Bitty lifts his head to stare at Jack, and the look on his face is almost stunned. Mrs. Bittle, who leaves her own space at the counter to look over Bitty’s shoulder, is just as surprised. “Oh my -- Dicky! Did you show him the pies while they were in the oven?”

Bitty’s eyes don’t leave Jack’s face. “No, ma’am, I did not.”

Jack jams his hands into his pockets, shrugs his shoulders with hopefully some degree of nonchalance. He doesn’t understand anything about personal pie-baking styles, or why telling them apart is a significant feat. “You baked a lot of pies at school, Bittle. It’s hard to miss after a while.” 

Mrs. Bittle pats Jack’s shoulder, looking distinctly impressed, and goes back to her salad. Bitty’s gaze never strays from Jack’s face.

“What?” Jack asks, bumping his hip into Bitty, trying to get him to look away. “It’s true, you did.”

Bitty hums. The expression on his face, whatever it was, fades away slowly. “Seventeen just in September, I’ve been told.”

Jack knew that. He doesn’t exactly remember telling Bitty that he knew that, but Bitty arches an eyebrow, clearly intent on chirping him about it, and Jack rolls his eyes. He can’t help but smile a little. The piling evidence of how long he’s been paying Bitty so much attention should stop taking him by surprise eventually, but it hasn’t yet. 

“Is this one yours, too?” Jack points at the most attention-grabbing pie of the line. He thinks that it might be filled with cherries and berries; its design clearly mimics the American flag, complete with pastry stripes and stars. “That’s insane. I’ve never seen you make anything like it.”

“Oh, well,” Bitty colors. Jack thinks that he might be trying to look modest, but it’s obvious that he’s proud of the pie, and is deeply flattered by the compliment. “Fourth of July is a big deal among the Bittles. Gotta play all my strongest cards.”

“It’s amazing,” Jack emphasizes, leaning forward to observe the small details. Every sharp edge of each star is impeccable, and the ninety-degree angle of the flag is precise. Jack’s a little sad it has to be cut later, actually.

Bitty crosses his arms over his chest, leans his hip against the counter. He kicks Jack’s leg with his feet to draw his attention back to Bitty. “Yeah, you know, it’s pretty. But I baked an apple pie as well.” 

Jack looks at him, taken aback, and then looks over the pies. There’s one completely covered with a pastry sheet, but he thinks the crispy edges of it might be maple sugar. He’s seen it before, cooling on the windowsill in the Haus.

“Because it’s American?” he asks, even though he already knows the real answer, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Bitty smiles in response. It’s modest, lopsided, private. Jack thinks that he knows what that means, too. “Well. Among other reasons.” 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It seems to Jack like the day is even hotter than the day before. Just standing outside, despite staying sheltered in the shade provided by the side of the house, is enough to make his body temperature climb steadily. He doesn’t actually stand still for long as it is, and is gradually growing used to constantly feeling like he’s just walked out of a sauna. 

Bitty’s family has been invited for lunchtime, but neither Bitty nor his parents provide Jack with an exact hour. He’s in the process of helping Bitty spread a tablecloth on one the tables outside when Moomaw walks into the yard through the back gate, haloed by a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a covered pie tin. Jack squints at her, wondering if the sun could be triggering hallucinations, and says, dryly, "Bittle. Your grandmother brought more pie. You and your mom already made _five pies_."

Bitty turns his head over his shoulders, hands slipping away from the checkered fabric of the tablecloth. When he sees his Moomaw approaching his face lights up instantly. "Well, obviously! She brought her apple pie, Jack, it's not Fourth of July without her apple pie. Mine isn't half as good, I’ll bet you’ll barely even touch it once you taste hers."

Bitty's apple pie has been known to cause violent incidents across campus during finals season, when Bitty baked more than he slept and the team went around distributing the leftovers; it became so sought-after that Shitty considered adding amendments to the Haus bylaws. Jack narrows his eyes. "That seems unlikely."

Bitty doesn’t even hear him, is already running to hug his grandmother. She’s so small, even smaller than Bitty’s mother, and she fits right under his arm when he guides her towards Jack and the table. They seem to be deep in conversation in mere seconds, and Moomaw hands Jack the foil-wrapped pie without pausing her story, face turned up towards Bitty. "-- and then Loretta had the _nerve_ to intervene. Now, that woman -- love thy neighbor and all, honey, but her porch's light's on and nobody's home, if you know what I mean."

Bitty laughs, chin butting into the top of her head and eyes locking on Jack’s. "Stories from her prayer meeting. They go wild sometimes," he tells Jack, as if that’s any kind of explanation.

Jack nods, a single sharp jerk of his head that’s more ungraceful than he’d like. Moomaw looks away from Bitty and towards Jack, and Jack could swear that she can recognize the fear in his eyes; he remembers, feeling a little crazy, that he’s read somewhere about never making eye contact with a predator because it presents a challenge. Common sense doesn’t stop him from dropping his gaze and keeping very still, offering stiltedly, "It's very nice to see you again so soon, ma'am."

Moomaw pats Bitty's forearm. She looks a little too pleased for Jack’s liking. "Oh dear, he's really quite nervous, ain't he? Do your guest a favor and grab him a cold one, sugar, before he has an aneurysm. My friend Abbie had one during a housewarming party and it really put a damper on things."

Jack clenches his fingers around the tin in his hands and sets the pie on the table, tries not to exhale too loudly in relief when Mrs. Bittle appears to steal Moomaw away. Bitty, meanwhile, bounds towards the gate to greet a woman who has three kids dragging their feet after her, and a bald man who Jack assumes is her husband. 

He stays standing by the table, shuffling awkwardly in place because he’s not sure if he’s supposed to go over and introduce himself. He can see Bitty wave to one of the kids from this vantage point and watches, apprehensive, as Bitty leads the woman in Jack’s direction. She is brown-haired, just slightly shorter than Bitty, and not nearly as intimidating as Moomaw despite their facial resemblance. Bitty introduces her as his Aunt Judy and his mother’s sister, and lets her politely question Jack about his family for a few moments. The moment she’s gone, hurrying to separate two of her bickering children, Jack is forbidden from mentioning anything associated, related or somehow relevant to jam in her presence by a serious-faced Bitty.

It’s easy to keep himself busy and avoid any more blundering social situations. Jack is tasked with carting food in and out of the kitchen, has his hands completely full by the time Coach’s sister Connie arrives with her own kids and fills the yard to maximum capacity. They make for an almost textbook American picture; the freshly-mowed grass is crowded with folded tables stacked with food, the patriotic bunting is hanging across tree branches, the large flag dangling from a second floor window is swaying in the air. All of the guests are dressed in reds and blues and none of them appear to be perturbed by the sheen of sweat on everybody’s foreheads. The adults are handed beers to keep their mouths and hands full, and the kids get sparkles, which Coach takes out of the cardboard boxes he carried outside that morning, despite it being the middle of the day and the way the sun is bathing the entire yard in bright yellow light. 

Jack, studying it all from over a large plate of potato salad he’s bringing outside, raises his eyebrows. “So lighting things on fire in the sky wasn’t a grand enough gesture? You have to light things on fire on the ground, too?”

Bitty, taking the salad from Jack’s hands to set it on the table, narrows his eyes. “You be careful with those chirps, Mr. Canada.”

Three minutes later Jack has an already lit sparkle shoved into his hand, and he stares at it, unsure what to do. Bitty’s youngest cousin Sean finds it hilarious, keeps waving his own in the air like he’s demonstrating for a simpleminded child. Bitty cackles and takes a photo of Jack with it; when he shows Jack later, the picture is mostly a blurred orange flare against the bright blue of the sky and Jack’s flat face staring at the lens impassively.

Once all of the meat is grilled, its smell overpowering the sweet scent of fresh baking, Mrs. Bittle ushers everyone to take seats and starts filling up the plates. There is so much variety that it’s a little intimidating, and Jack keeps his hands under the table, waiting for everyone to finish clamoring over the food before he helps himself. He looks to Bitty for reassurance, and comes face to face with another new thing to learn about Bitty; he was previously somewhat aware that Bitty could put away more food than was apparent from his small build, but by the third plate of root-beer drumsticks Bitty devours without any effort, Jack finds himself openly staring. Bitty, meanwhile, is making cursory, painful small talk with his uncle about politics that Jack is exempt from due to a foreign citizenship. 

Jack has nothing but mountains of food to distract him from how inexplicably enamored he is, watching Bitty bite off huge chunks of chicken. At some point Bitty turns to look at him, sauce staining the corner of his mouth, and mumbles quietly, ”You’re damn lucky they haven’t realized that your mom’s from here.” Jack blinks, doesn’t thumb the sauce off Bitty’s face, feels lucky for much more than just that.

Bitty’s family is -- loud. Jack struggles with large gatherings, can’t manage too many people at once, but the Bittles and the Phelps don’t seem to expect much of him. Everybody keeps asking if he needs another refill, and if he’s enjoying Georgia so far, and what his favorite football team is, and how his parents are doing, without knowing who they are at all. It isn’t, necessarily, easy, but sometime between Aunt Judy stopping Bitty’s cousin from lighting the tablecloth on fire with a sparkle she’s hidden away (“Anna May, you put that thing down _right now_ ,”), and watching Bitty nearly bust a lung laughing when his uncle and cousin commence a hotdog-eating competition, Jack can admit to enjoying himself. He feels almost like a spectator, and it’s not a bad thing for him to be. 

The amount of food eaten away is truly impressive. By the time most of the adults have shifted downwards in their seats and adjusted their belts, the table looks like it’s been stripped by a famished band of locust. The light conversation doesn’t falter, but Jack’s eyes catch on Coach, sitting on the other side of the table, bending to reach for something on the ground. When he straightens up he’s holding a football in one hand, and Bitty groans, dropping his face into his palms. Down the table, at least two of Bitty’s cousins cheer loudly.

“Come on, Junior,” Coach says, nudging the ball in Bitty’s direction. “Let’s show those Phelps how it’s done.”

Bitty sighs. He flicks an exasperated glance in Jack's direction and clambers away from the table. Jack turns to watch him go, accepting another cold beer from Aunt Connie despite having never finished the first. He presses its neck to the inside part of his arm instead of drinking it, leans his forehead against its other side to cool his heating skin.

Bitty and his father start out playing a simple game of catch with two of Bitty’s cousins, spread out along opposite sides of the yard. Bitty’s passes are smooth, practiced, and Jack’s mind stubbornly fits a hockey stick in his hand, making it hard for Jack to look away. Bitty’s older cousin Aiden joins, too, once all of the burger patties are gone, and Aunt Judy's oldest child Sarah follows closely. There’s eight of them, then, and they separate into two teams of four for a game of backyard football before Jack’s really noticed anything happening.

Coach waves him over, but Jack shakes his head and chooses to sit it out. He sips his beer, warming rapidly from his body heat, kicks off his shoes and enjoys the sensation of grass between his toes, the fullness of his stomach. He watches Bitty run around while dodging against interceptions and throwing seamless passes at his teammates. Bitty is really, surprisingly good at football, and it’s hard not to be impressed, but Jack resolves not to say a single word about it. He’s got a feeling, from his previous conversation with Coach and from Coach’s wistful looks whenever he watches his son throw a ball, that it’s a sore subject. 

It’s clear even to Jack that Bitty holds the idea of family in high regards. It’s clear that he’s willing to sacrifice a lot for it, even when it’s painful for him, and even clearer around his extended family. Throughout the day there have been moments that made Jack freeze, gaze automatically snapping to Bitty -- Bitty’s cousin telling his sister a story from college and laughing when he says, "-- and I was like, no homo, yeah?", or Bitty’s aunt and mother questioning him about cute girls at school, eyes twinkling. Bitty just shakes it off, smooths over the pinched expression on his face, changes the topic or laughs awkwardly or ignores it entirely. Quits his favorite sport, throws away championship shots, to ease his relationship with his parents. Jack can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it, and then thinks about their conversation from that morning and knows that Bitty keeps choosing it because he knows what the alternative may be.

“So Jack, you play hockey, don’t’cha?” Aunt Connie's husband asks, making Jack snap out of his thoughts and away from the game fanned out on the grass, twisting his body back towards the table. Connie’s husband is sitting low in his chair, hands covering his swollen stomach, and he’s looking at Jack curiously. 

“Oh -- euh, yes sir,” Jack says. He’s dragged into a conversation with the man and his oldest son about the NHL, gesturing with the hand holding the beer and registering, in an absent way, the surprise on their faces at his level of engagement. He’s so deep into explaining the season structure that even when he hears the game behind him stop, he’s too immersed in the conversation to turn around. They talk about player positions and then segue into risky plays in football and when they get derailed into baseball teams, Jack finally excuses himself to search for Bitty.

Jack finds him sitting on a lawn chair on the other side of the yard, surprisingly alone. He’s typing something on his phone, a wrinkle between his brows. His hair is more golden than usual; his leg is bent under his chin, the thick muscle of his calf bulging. Jack drops himself into the seat by Bitty and waits for him to look up before he suggests, “We should take a selfie.”

Bitty’s eyebrows rise. He drops his leg to the floor and turns his upper body to face Jack, leaning onto the armrest. Jack is more than prepared for the chirps that he knows are coming. “You know, this is the second time you’ve said that to me. I dare say I'm a good influence on you.”

“We never got around to that last one.”

Bitty grins, shoves their shoulders together and aims his front camera to snap a picture of their heads pressed together. There’s no mistaking the image on the screen: both of their faces are sunburnt and pink, their hair tousled with sweat, and the beams on their faces are curved lines stretching from ear to ear. There’s even a hint of a flag fluttering in the wind somewhere behind them. It’s a warm portrayal of summer and happiness.

“You should send that to the boys,” Jack says, when Bitty brings the phone closer to swipe through the several shots he’s taken. 

Bitty gives him a calculating look. “I should?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, easy. What he really wants is for Bitty to send it to everybody in the world, for Jack to frame it and put it by his bed in Providence. He might, yet. But he can compromise for the small things in the meanwhile. “It’s a good picture.” 

Bitty looks at him, and Jack looks back. Their knees are touching between the chairs, and after a few seconds, Bitty's smile returns. “Yeah. It really is.” 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**SMH Boys ( & Girl)**

July 4th, 2015

> _Holster_
> 
> happy america day to all my american buddies!!
> 
> none for you canada sorry
> 
> (14:26)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> this is betrayal???
> 
> i let you into my home on canada day you fucker
> 
> (14:30)
> 
> _Nursey_
> 
> who wants to celebrate canada day wtf
> 
> happy fourth!
> 
> (14:32)
> 
> _Chowder_
> 
> HAPPY FOURTH GUYS!!!
> 
> (14:40)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> Don’t listen to Holster
> 
> This is Adopt A Canadian Day
> 
> Show them who the better country really is
> 
> [ _attached IMG0077672.jpg_ ]
> 
> (14:53)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> HOLY SHIT YOU FUCKERS
> 
> ARE YOU BOTH IN GA?????
> 
> (14:55)
> 
> surprise :-)
> 
> there is so much meat here
> 
> i think they may have slaughtered a whole farm
> 
> (14:55, ✓✓)
> 
> _Dex_
> 
> now that’s the way to do it! go Bitty!!
> 
> (14:56)
> 
> _Ransom_
> 
> ET TU, JACK???
> 
> (14:57)
> 
> _Holster_
> 
> i cannot BELIEVE jack zimmermann is in madison
> 
> what’d u do bits, kidnap him??
> 
> (14:57)
> 
> _Bittle_
> 
> He came willingly
> 
> The smell of apple pie lured him into the real queen of North America
> 
> (14:58)
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> [ _attached IMG8965679.jpg_ ]
> 
> there is a lot
> 
> of apple pie
> 
> (15:01, ✓✓)
> 
> _Lardo_
> 
> save some till august or you’re unfriended
> 
> (15:01)
> 
> _Shitty_
> 
> still shocked you two met without telling tbh
> 
> shocked and betrayed 
> 
> but also super happy for you
> 
> MAIL ME SOME PIE
> 
> (15:02)

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The adrenaline spike deriving from Jack’s overemotional twenty-four hours and the energy boost from his morning run only manage to carry him so far. He’s been getting used to his timed seven and a half hours of nightly sleep for months; by mid-afternoon, his head is pounding and his vision is blurring at the edges. 

Bitty must notice something’s wrong, because he stops in the middle of a conversation with his aunt to ask if everything’s okay. Jack can only wince in response, clinging to the pitcher of ice water he’s relocated permanently to his corner of the table, and say, “I don’t know. Maybe it's a heat stroke.” He doesn’t think it is, really, because he also can’t stop yawning every two or three minutes, but the joke falls a little flat by the alarmed look on Bitty’s face.

He’s then sent to rest in the Bittles’ cool living room and down two liters of water before he’s allowed to come back. Jack thinks that it’s unnecessary, but Bitty won’t budge, so Jack goes inside armed with a bottle and sits down on one of the plush armchairs in the living room. He’s intent on finishing the entire bottle in under ten minutes so he can go back outside and prove to Bitty that he’s perfectly fine, and starts gulping resolutely.

He wakes up an unknown amount of time later, head bent into an unnatural angle and muscles stiff. The water bottle lays forgotten on his lap, not even half empty. There’s a window facing east in the wall in front of him, and he could’ve sworn it was much lighter out when he walked inside; he’s never taken a nap without setting an alarm clock beforehand, and he feels groggy. He actually has no sense of how much time he’s been asleep.

A shadow passes on the floor and he turns to see Mrs. Bittle carrying a stack of folded tablecloths through the hallway outside the room. He rubs his eyes, tries to look less confused than he actually feels, but she stops when she catches sight of him. 

“You poor thing! I was sure you fell asleep. This summer heat can really knock you out, can't it.” 

Jack sits up straight, twisting the muscles in his neck back into place, and feels momentarily grateful for being so disoriented because otherwise he’d feel a lot more ashamed right now. He can’t even decide if it’s worse that he’s fallen asleep during the party his host has prepared for a whole day, or that Bitty's mother mistakenly believes his exhaustion is caused by the heat and not by being in bed with her son all night.

“Mrs. Bittle, I am so sorry, this was so rude of me --”

“Oh no, no, dear, it’s alright!” she waves one hand in the air to dismiss him, supporting the mass of tablecloths with her chest. “You should’ve seen the boys out there, passed out right into their beers. You’re in good company.”

So he stretches his legs and walks outside to find Bitty, discovers that he’s slept for just under two hours. Most of the guests have left, and Bitty is circling the yard, helping Coach put everything back into place. The grass is littered with discarded napkins and the metallic wires of burnt-out sparklers. Bitty keeps glancing at Jack with these frowning, worried looks, until Jack admits, shamefacedly, that he’s just fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. Bitty stops looking worried, then, and starts looking far too smug for Jack’s liking. That's what he tells himself, at least. He refuses to admit aloud that smugness is another thing Bitty wears far too well.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Despite being literally exhausted enough to drop, they don’t make it upstairs until nearly eleven. After the yard is back in prime conditions Mrs. Bittle ropes them into delivering leftover pastries to the Bittles’ neighbors, then sends the two of them straight into the shower again. Bitty doesn’t even seem surprised by this; when they’re kicking off their shoes he tells Jack that his record is showering four times in one day, on one of the hottest summer days Georgia has ever seen.

They settle in the living room for an apparently traditional viewing of Forrest Gump after that. Bitty takes the seat closest to the television, curled up in an armchair, and Jack takes the seat behind him, watching the nape of Bitty’s skin and the way his fingers pluck at the fabric of the armrest almost more than he watches Tom Hanks’ face on the big screen. Mrs. Bittle pauses for a break right in the middle of the movie, as if they’re in a movie theater, and returns from the kitchen carrying a tray of sandwiches without the crust. Jack nearly blanches at the thought of _more_ _food_ , but Bitty stretches his leg from the armchair to tap Jack’s knee, the closest part he can reach, and says, “You may feel like a beached whale, Zimmermann, but you’ve actually only eaten one meal today, and we Bittles don’t send guests to bed hungry.” 

Bitty volunteers to wash the dishes when Coach falls asleep nearing the end of the movie, his head bent crookedly into the back of the couch much like Jack’s was before. Mrs. Bittle gratefully peels her husband off the cushions and directs him upstairs with flat hands over his shoulders, wishes them good night on her way up. Jack follows Bitty into the kitchen, grabs the dishtowel much like he did the previous night, and they work efficiently together. Jack lets their sides linger together, bumps his hips into Bitty’s more than he should, grazes their fingers together when Bitty passes the damp dishes for longer than he should. Bitty’s face is pink, but he looks pleased. Jack hides his pleasure in an embroidered green towel and doesn’t even attempt to bite back his smile.

When they go upstairs Bitty walks by his parents’ door very slowly and even presses his ear to the door to make sure they’re asleep. By the thumbs up, Jack assumes that they’re good. They both creep into the guest room, closing the door mutely behind them. 

Bitty’s yawn is so big that his entire jaw looks like it’s unhinged. “Good god, I’m exhausted. Tonight we really _do_ get some actual sleep.”

He stretches his arms over his head, joints popping, and Jack looks at his muscles rippling beneath the thin shirt and says, mind blank, “Um -- uh huh. Sure. I mean, sleep. Right.” He is definitely not, even a tiny bit, thinking of sleep when he says this.

Bitty’s already wearing his sleep clothes, changed into them after their shower, and he settles on the bench with his legs crossed and his shoulders sloping down. His shorts aren’t as obscene as they were the previous night, which Jack is grateful for; it means he can actually concentrate while he tells Bitty about the conversation unfolding in the Falconers’ group chat, that for some reason started with Snowy asking Tater if Putin’s going to outlaw him for participating in Fourth of July celebrations. 

While the shorts are slightly longer, they’re also softer-looking, and the shirt Bitty’s wearing is bigger than its precedent, and his hair has already dried into waves of blonde silk. The overall effect is warm and enticing, and Jack just wants to bury his head in Bitty’s chest and never let go. Instead of doing that, he stands in front of him while changing into sleep clothes and talks about -- Putin. Of all things.

“-- and then Thirdy sent that picture of him on the bear -- I don’t know why he thought it’d make anything better, because it _really_ didn’t --” Jack takes his pants off, swiftly, tugs on the sleep shorts he’s had on the other night, “-- and Benny sent the same picture but this time he edited the American flag behind Putin and the bear? Ha ha, I have no idea how he did it, but it just escalated from there,” he folds the pants he took off and drops them into his bag, grabbing a sleeping shirt, “and at this point I thought, you know, I can’t believe I’m now in _two_ group chats like this, and I wondered what Holster would make if I sent it to _our_ chat --” he reaches over his head to yank his shirt off from the back, and startles when a very audible gasp resonates through the room.

Jack squints at Bitty, shirtless, discarded shirt hanging between his fingers. “...Are you okay?” 

Bitty’s face is really pink. His mouth is parted, shiny, and his eyes are wide but they’re not aimed at Jack. Or, well, they’re not aimed at Jack’s face, but are rather fixated really intensely on his naked chest and stomach.

“You. Uh. _God_ ,” Bitty stutters, voice actually breaking mid-vowel. Jack’s whole bloodstream heats up by a few degrees, just like that. Bitty leans forward to tug Jack by the fabric of his shorts until his knees hit the edge of the bench, brushing against Bitty’s shins. He swallows visibly, throat bobbing, and Jack stares with his breath held when Bitty raises one finger and pauses while it’s still hovering less than a centimeter from Jack’s skin, before drawing it farther away, hesitant. “Can I -- Lord, this is so weird. Can I just. Touch you. Please?”

“Yes,” Jack says instantly, eyes trained on that finger, and drops his shirt to the floor. He might start begging if Bitty doesn’t.

Bitty glances up at him, briefly, then licks his lips. Jack doesn’t remember how his story ends, doesn’t even remember what story he was telling. He can do nothing but watch as Bitty closes the distance between his finger and the expanse of Jack’s abs so, _so_ fucking slowly, can do nothing but draw in a shaky breath when Bitty’s eyes grow darker and his mouth slackens as he palms Jack’s muscles for a moment.

“Does this,” Bitty murmurs, voice raspy, then clears his throat softly, “Is this okay? You’re -- I mean. _Jesus_ , Jack.”

“Very okay,” Jack assures. It’s mostly instinct, because he has no real idea what he’s just said. Bitty’s fingers are rough and calloused but their caress is tender, slow, almost tickling. Jack has never been so turned on so quickly, and by something not even overtly sexual, at that. There’s just something about Bitty becoming unraveled by only looking at Jack’s body that makes it one of the most erotic things Jack has ever witnessed. He wants to chirp Bitty for reacting like this to a body he’s seen naked hundreds of times, attempt to lighten the mood, but he can’t find words in either of the languages he knows.

Bitty lets his fingers dip into the indentations between Jack’s abdominal muscles, then grazes them over the muscles themselves. Jack can’t see his expression when Bitty’s watching his fingers, can only see the crown of Bitty’s head, and at a certain point the urge grows too strong. He brings his own hands up, starts by curving them over the nape of Bitty’s neck, and then slowly runs them into Bitty’s hair. The top of it is long enough to stick out from between his fingers; he’s not brave enough to pull yet, not even very gently. 

The fingers recede from Jack’s body, then, and Jack has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from objecting -- but then Bitty leans in, tentative and excruciatingly slow. His mouth wavers above the sharp jut of Jack's hip bone, and then he pulls back again, looks up to Jack. His face is bright red, redder than Jack’s ever seen it. Jack’s fingers tighten in Bitty’s hair almost unconsciously. 

Bitty lowers his eyes, pushes forward, presses his lips into the groove made by the V-shape of Jack’s Adonis belt. He withdraws just enough to trail his mouth higher, and fits it over the ridges his fingers have traced before. He presses soft, dry kisses to the skin, a path going up and then down again, obviously exploring, before he drags his lips all the way down to the elastic band of Jack’s shorts, where the hair on his pubic bone turns thick and rough. 

The texture of the short hairs seems to surprise Bitty, because he twitches a little, mouth stroking through the patch of it. Jack nearly jerks out of his own body, by now outright panting, but Bitty pulls back and follows the same track he’s made already, all the way up until he has to tilt his chin to keep his mouth on Jack’s skin. He runs a flat palm over the valley between Jack’s firm chest pecs, smooths it over the patch of hair there, tangles his fingers in it.

“I,” Bitty says, the quiet note sounding much louder than it is in the silent room. Jack’s never seen him so wrecked before. He doesn’t even lift his eyes to meet Jack’s, just sweeps them over Jack’s chest, down to his abs and to his pelvis, and then back up again. “Sorry, I. I just really wanted to do that. _Fuck_. Is this really alright? With you?”

Jack doesn’t remember when he last heard Bitty say fuck. Jack’s dick is also so hard that it’s almost literally poking Bitty’s chest, straining against the loose fabric of his pants. Bitty seems to realize this less than a second after he asks, because his eyes drop lower than they have so far and catch on Jack’s glaringly obvious erection, causing both of their cheeks to flame up instantly.

“Obviously,” Jack says, strangled. It distantly occurs to him that he should probably be embarrassed about leaking precome into his underwear just from someone patting his torso, but it’s difficult to remember when Bitty’s large eyes are looking at him like this. Like he’s something to admire, to touch with awe; like Bitty is in a similar condition just from doing the patting.

“Oh, well. Good,” Bitty says, voice breathy. He presses his lips back to the bottom part of Jack’s abs and, after a moment of stillness, sucks the skin into his mouth. Jack makes a noise that he didn’t even know his throat could form. When Bitty releases the skin, that spot is slightly redder than its surrounding area, and its surface is glossy with spit. Jack’s dick lurches almost violently.

“Bits --” Jack moves back, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. When he opens them it’s to the image of Bitty sitting between his legs, his eyes huge, his mouth swollen. To call it pornographic would be an understatement. “ _Jesus fucking Christ_. Bits. You gotta tell me what you wanna do.”

Bitty, thankfully, pauses for longer than five seconds before he answers. It quietens Jack’s mind and lets him draw air into his heaving lungs. “Kiss you,” Bitty says finally, pressing a soft kiss to the skin in front of him, specifically to the skin covering two of Jack’s ribs. “Um. Places.”

Jack takes another shuddering breath. _Ostie d’crisse de tabarnak_ , does Jack _want_ right now. “Places.”

Bitty’s face looks like it’s slowly catching on fire, and for the first time he backs more than a few centimeters away from Jack’s body. “Uh. Well. Maybe not -- _places_. Because -- I haven’t -- and that seems like it could. Go wrong, easily.”

Jack cringes, fingers spasming in Bitty’s hair. The first blowjob he’s ever given was with his knees on the floor of a tiny hotel bathroom, and while the memories are hazy with alcohol and medication, what he does remember isn’t all that pleasant. “Yeah. Maybe that should -- wait. I can show you first, if you want.” 

The visual his brain produces as a followup to these words steals whatever breath he still has left. He imagines spreading Bitty’s legs apart on his bed in Providence, dark sheets against his pale skin, laying between them and licking his way down Bitty’s body from his lips to his groin. He envisions taking his time, coaxing loud moans with his mouth and his tongue, without the lingering fear of getting caught. The idea of it makes his mouth water, gets him hotter than the thought of Bitty sucking _him_. He desperately wants the chance to do it right. “But maybe not here. If you come to Providence, we can -- we’ll have more privacy --”

“Okay,” Bitty agrees. His hands curve around Jack's hips, slide down and back to cup his ass over the fabric of his shorts. “But can I still -- I mean, we can do… other stuff?”

Bitty’s hands squeeze Jack’s flesh; Jack’s not sure that it’s entirely intentional. “I’d like to. Do other stuff. We said we might -- if you’re comfortable -- we said we can try less clothes…?”

Bitty glances at Jack’s bare chest, looks up to Jack’s face wordlessly. Jack laughs, and it sounds more deep and panicky than he thought it would. “Okay. So we can just -- okay, hold on.”

Jack tugs his fingers free from Bitty’s hair, spreads his hands over Bitty’s sides and, without warning, lifts him up to sit on the foot of the bed behind the bench. Bitty squeaks, surprised, but Jack just applies light pressure to Bitty’s shoulders and swings his legs past the bench, crawling over Bitty on his hands and knees. Bitty gets the idea and shuffles back on the bed, until both pairs of their feet are no longer in the air and Jack is balancing himself on his shins and forearms, body a taut line over Bitty.

Their eyes meet and then hold for a long moment. Bitty smiles, skims a palm over Jack’s jaw, up his cheekbones, and then combs it through the bangs falling into Jack’s forehead as he’s looking down at Bitty. It’s a gentle touch; Bitty slicks the hairs backwards, watches as they flop back down with the force of gravity, and then does it again. The second time he runs his fingers back all the way over Jack’s skull, and brings his other arm to sling both of them around Jack’s neck, tugging him forward for a long kiss.

Jack lets himself be kissed, concentrating on that one point of contact between them, but he can’t hold the position for long. He once won a ten-minute plank competition in the Haus, but now his arms begin trembling with the effort of holding himself up while physically exhausted and craving the touch of Bitty’s skin against his. Bitty’s lying flat on the mattress beneath him, though, and letting him take the full weight of Jack’s body doesn’t seem like a smart idea. 

Jack bends his elbows and drops down onto his side, rolling Bitty into him with the movement. Bitty’s lips slide away from Jack’s and land on the skin below his ear, but he doesn’t stop kissing, sucking lightly on Jack’s pulse point while tangling their hands and feet together.

“Can I?” Jack asks when Bitty moves away for air, tugging on the hem of Bitty’s shirt. Bitty tilts his head to meet Jack’s eyes; he looks timid, attention flickering over different points in Jack’s face, but he nods. 

Jack guides the shirt up, knuckles brushing the skin revealed beneath it. Bitty has to pull his upper body off the mattress so they can get the shirt past his shoulder blades and armpits, which rewards Jack with an exceptional view of his abs clenching to push himself up.

Bitty looks unsure once the shirt is off, though. He keeps his shoulders tucked in and his hands drift over Jack’s arms, his chest, on the sheets, and then back again, restless. Jack genuinely has no idea why; Bitty’s body is sculpted out of nothing but long muscles, pale hair and pink skin. Jack traces the neatly defined squares of Bitty’s abs up to his chest, and then finds the cord of muscle coiling into his arm from that camp picture, the one that drove Jack to the brink of insanity. He holds Bitty’s bicep with one hand, lowers himself down, and bites on it gently.

Bitty’s punched-out “ _Jack,”_ is gasped right next to Jack’s ear. Jack pulls himself back up and finds Bitty’s mouth, kisses him dirtily, uses nothing but tongue and teeth and too much spit.

“You’re -- gorgeous,” he says, breathless. He wishes he was better with words, so he could describe to Bitty how incredibly attractive he is. He wishes Bitty knew French, so he’d have a bigger vocabulary pool, a better shot at succeeding. Sometimes English just doesn't feel like enough.

“Are you serious,” Bitty demands, halfway laughing, the vibrations of it shaky. “Jack, your body is literally -- how're you _real_ , just _looking_ at you gets me goin'.”

Both of their hands are halting a little, less sure of where they’re headed. Jack clutches Bitty’s hip and pulls it towards him to close the miniscule space between their bodies, making their erections line up and rub against each other. It’s an even better sensation in soft fabrics than it was in jeans, but Jack stills their instinctive grinding motions and says, very slowly, “We can do what we did yesterday.”

Bitty nods. His bottom lip is dented by the imprint of his teeth, and his eyes are more pupils than brown irises. “I liked what we did yesterday.”

Jack huffs a nervous laughter. “Yeah. Me too. And we can -- we can take pants off, try it in just underwear.”

Bitty nods again. His eyes follow the movements of Jack’s lips as he speaks, looking enthralled. Jack has so little self-control right now that it’s honestly distressing. “Uh huh. I’m good with that, too.”

Jack swallows, and gradually, searching for Bitty’s reaction, lowers his hand from Bitty’s hip to tuck his fingers under the waistband of Bitty’s pants, the tips of them teasing at the elastic of the boxers beneath them. “Or I can -- touch you. Without any of those.” Bitty’s eyes snap up to his, widening, so Jack hastens to amend, “Only if you want. No pressure --”

“But you want to,” Bitty cuts him off. Jack hurriedly opens his mouth to clumsily ensure that he’s more than okay with all of the viable options, but Bitty beats him to it and clarifies, “I mean, you’d _enjoy_ that? You’re not pressuring me, Jack, I just wanna make sure you’re not pressuring _you_. It isn’t just ‘bout me.”

He looks embarrassed for having spoken that possibility out loud, but it makes Jack's chest feel tight, knowing that they’re looking out for each other. That it isn’t just physical pleasure; Bitty _cares_ about him. He leans in, kisses Bitty a lot softer than he did before, lips brushing together gingerly. “I would enjoy that. A lot. But I’d probably be looking at you the whole time, so if you’re not sure --”

Bitty huffs, looking frustrated -- with Jack or himself, Jack really doesn’t know -- and rolls away just enough to lie on his back, bring his knees to his chest and tug his pants off in one nimble movement, kicking them to the floor. His briefs are dark red, clinging to the crease of his thigh and the hard muscles of his hips, showcasing the discernible outline of his dick curved towards his stomach. There’s a wet spot right over the bulge, and Jack clamps his hand in the thin blanket beneath them as a reminder to keep his mouth to himself for now.

He stretches out the arm supporting his body, hauls a pillow from the top of the bed and shoves it beneath his neck, curling his arm under it and then tugging Bitty into Jack's side, his head pillowed in the crook of Jack’s arm. Bitty’s hip bones and outer thigh are pressed in a long line against Jack's chest and stomach like this, allowing him to watch Bitty’s chest rising and falling, the apprehensive but determined look twisting his face. He plants a kiss on Bitty’s cheek, on the column of his throat, and then kisses a line down to his collarbone and the joint of his shoulder and to the skin right above Bitty’s small brown nipple, drawing out a gasp. Meanwhile, his hand slowly climbs up Bitty’s thigh to curve over his pelvis, framing Bitty’s cock between Jack’s forefinger and thumb.

“Do you --” Jack's voice cracks, and he leans his head against the side of Bitty’s, forehead to temple. “Do you want to take them off?”

Bitty’s cheeks are two rich pink stains right under Jack's nose. He looks unsure, expression shifting back and forth, more indecisive than he’s been about anything else they’ve done. 

“Maybe -- can you just -- like this?” Bitty shifts his hands from the sides of his body to cover Jack's own hand, palms spreading on the back of it and bringing Jack’s hand to the edge of the elastic band. His fingers are shaking, unsteady. He pushes their joined hands to drag his underwear down, just enough to tuck it under his balls without taking it off entirely; Jack can feel his pulse ratchet up under his touch. 

Jack disentangles his hand from Bitty’s grip, inches it towards the hard line of Bitty’s cock. He concentrates on advancing slowly enough to give Bitty time to stop if he wants, and then moves even slower to encircle it, closing a tight fist. Bitty’s cock isn’t small, but it’s still proportional to his body, which means that Jack’s large hand covers a lot of it; the visual they create together is tantalizing.

“That’s -- stupidly hot,” Bitty stammers, hands clenching over his stomach. Every muscle in his body is perfectly flexed with how tensely he’s holding himself. “Your hand is huge. Oh my god.”

Jack terribly wants to move his hand, wants to make Bitty come, but even the small amount of distance between them feels like too much for that. He noses at Bitty’s face until Bitty gets the hint, tilts his head to look away from Jack's hand and to the side, at Jack's face. Jack kisses him then -- long, wet, deep kisses, until both of them are panting and Jack's first slide up and down the shaft provokes a moan that Jack muffles with his mouth. 

He keeps his slide slow but his grip tight, makes sure to swipe his thumb very gently over the head in case Bitty’s sensitive, and grazes his fingernail over the prominent vein running along the underside from root to tip. His hand grows slick fairly quickly, drops of Bitty’s precome sliding between the knuckles of his fingers, and by Bitty’s erratic breathing against Jack’s mouth it won’t take long at all. 

Bitty whines before he comes, biting at Jack’s bottom lip hard. Jack swipes his tongue over it and keeps kissing Bitty through the aftershocks, pressing short kisses to his lips and the tip of his tongue and the corner of his mouth. Bitty turns his head away after a moment to catch his breath, gasping for air. Jack uses the time to extend his arm over the edge of the bed and pick up Bitty’s discarded shirt, wiping his soiled hand on the fabric.

“Rude,” Bitty complains. He has one arm thrown across his face and his eyes are heavy-lidded, watching Jack's movements bonelessly. He looks completely fucked-out, red-skinned and sweaty; gorgeous. Jack has a hard time comprehending the fact that he gets to have Bitty like this, that he had the pleasure of making him like this. Bitty’s eyes travel lower and pause on Jack's visible cock in his sleep shorts. “Oh -- I, god, that’s rude of _me_. Do you want me to --”

He seems beyond willing, already shifting to move closer, but Jack's pretty sure he won’t even last until Bitty actually touches him. He’s been painfully hard since Bitty first touched his abdomen and exceedingly turned on from watching Bitty fall apart under his hand. “ _Non, c'est bon_ \-- just -- can I --”

He shuffles closer to the middle of the bed and covers the length of Bitty’s body with his own, wary of Bitty's softening cock and of the remaining come drying in his pubic hair. Bitty threads his hands in Jack’s hair and says, smilingly, “If you keep talking French at me you can have whatever you want, sweetpea.”

Jack stifles his laughter in the warm skin of Bitty’s neck, and then his groan as he traps Bitty’s thigh between his legs and ruts against him in his pants, small thrusting movements that push him over too soon. He comes with Bitty’s fingers pulling on his hair and Bitty’s breath rushing into his ear, and then remains lying still for a moment, enveloped in Bitty’s body, his senses overloaded.

Bitty tightens his hold on Jack, one arm wrapping over his back. He spreads his legs to curl one over the back of Jack’s knees, hugs him closer, and says, “I sure hope you packed extra pairs of underwear.”

Jack can’t help it: he starts laughing, shoulders shaking against Bitty’s, and the two of them lay there giggling, sticky with come, profoundly happy.

They move, eventually. Bitty tiptoes to the bathroom and Jack changes into new underwear and pants, wedging his dirty ones into his bag next to the ones from the previous day. He might just throw them out once he gets home, since they’ll be marinating in come and sweat for two full days, but he honestly doesn’t care in the slightest. He lies down on the bed on his back, arms folded behind his head as he waits for Bitty to creep back in, and when Bitty does he fits himself into the crevices Jack’s body left for him. He curls into Jack, lays his head on Jack's chest, and Jack bends his neck to kiss the top of Bitty’s head. On a whim, he stretches out one arm to the bedside table, flips his phone and snorts. The clock on the screen says that it’s almost two in the morning. 

“So what was it you said about really sleeping tonight?”

Bitty snorts, buries his laughter in Jack's bare chest. His grin is embarrassed, pleased, tired, and glowing radiantly just for Jack.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jack wakes up too early; he can tell by the darkness outside the open window and by the heaviness in his eyes and his head. The room is too hot even with the ceiling fan, definitely too hot for two people to share a bed and lie under the covers. Bitty, for some inexplicable reason, is buried in the sheets all the way up to his chin, even though Jack can feel that his skin is just as clammy as Jack’s.

They got no sleep the previous night, and by the state of the sky they couldn’t have been asleep for more than four hours now. Jack shifts in place and tries to force himself back asleep -- if not for the sake of how tired he is, then to savor being in bed with Bitty, who is cuddled on top of him. He suspects, privately, that sleeping with Bitty might be something he’ll start craving every night from now on, and he won’t get to do it again for a very long time. He should enjoy it while he can.

Reality is unfortunately less romantic than he’d like. Bitty’s hair is damp with sweat and so is the small of Jack's back, the hollow of his crotch. Both of their skins are sticking to the sheets, to each other, and the air in the room is suffocating and as thick as soup. Jack tries to take deep breaths, to position his body more comfortably, but it doesn’t do much to help.

“Jack. What are you doing,” comes the faint gripe from somewhere around his chest. Bitty is peeking one tired eye at him, looking adorably pissed about his pillow moving while he’s asleep.

Jack tries to shift again but sags back against the mattress, exhausted and frustrated. “Trying to fall back asleep. Can’t. ‘S too hot.”

Bitty tugs the blanket higher, until it’s almost up to his brows; Jack dedicates his very few working brain cells to both admiring his commitment and worrying that he might choke to death. “Try harder. Count pucks going in the net or s’mthing.”

Jack yanks the blanket down to give Bitty the stink eye, horribly unamused at this hour. “Your attitude is bringing back vivid memories of dragging you to checking practice your freshman year.”

“Really,” Bitty mutters, smushing his face into a real pillow now that he’s given up on using Jack’s chest. He does an impressively good impersonation of someone deeply asleep while still talking. “‘M getting the same ones. Same asshole refusing to let me _sleep_.”

Jack snorts, rolling into his side and kicking his legs out of the blanket. “Harsh words from you, Bittle.”

“‘S so early even god ain’t up yet. I’ll curse however much I want.”

“How can you _sleep_ like this,” Jack complains, letting his arms and his back follow his legs’ pursuit of cool twilight air away from the covers. They are regrettably unsuccessful; the sheets themselves are warmed with his and Bitty’s combined body heat, but the room isn’t much colder, and it offers no relief. 

“Well, I _can't_ , can I,” Bitty huffs pointedly. His feet kick out, aiming blindly for Jack’s shin, probably, and missing by a lot.

Jack looks at him noiselessly. Bitty opens his eyes after a full minute of silence and stares blearily at him back. His eyes are rimmed with red and his lips are chapped and his hair is sticking up in odd directions; Jack feels a huge smile spreading on his face, despite the heat, despite the headache. He moves closer, pulls Bitty into his chest, and peppers kisses onto Bitty’s hair, his forehead, the tip of his nose. 

“Ugh,” Bitty grumbles, but there’s color rising in his cheeks and the corners of his mouth are turning up. “How dare you be adorable at five in the morning.”

Jack pauses his attack to search for a clock, hand sweeping over the bedside table until he finds a phone, which turns out to be Bitty’s. “It’s six, actually.”

Bitty yawns, stretches out his limbs, shoves his feet between Jack’s ankles. Jack kisses him again, right beneath his ear, just because he wants to. “Oh, well, if it’s _six_.”

“The sun will be up soon. That makes it morning.”

Bitty hums. Jack’s hope for falling back asleep has more or less vanished, but it doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing when Bitty kicks the blanket to the foot of the bed, throws a leg over Jack’s hips and presses lazy, languid kisses to the ball of Jack’s shoulder. Jack rubs slow circles on Bitty’s back and tries to commit the feeling of Bitty by his side, in his arms, to his memory for safekeeping.

Some time later, Bitty yawns into Jack’s neck and asks, “Wanna go watch it, if we’re already awake?”

It takes Jack a moment to realize that Bitty is talking about the sun; time is a strange concept, when one is half asleep. He nuzzles his nose into Bitty’s hair, sniffs the scent of his shampoo discreetly. “Sure. Sounds good.”

He tips Bitty’s head with a finger beneath his chin and presses their mouths together. They kiss sweetly, leisurely, and then pull themselves off the bed in sluggish movements, putting discarded articles of clothing back on. Bitty eyes his sullied sleeping shirt critically and ducks into his room on their way down the stairs to grab a clean one.

Bitty makes them both cups of coffee in deliberately silly mugs. Bitty’s one says _Liberté, Egalité, Beyoncé_ , which is especially funny considering Bitty admits that he had to google translate its meaning, and Jack’s one says _Y'all need Jesus_ in a swirly font. Bitty refuses to tell him which family member the mug belongs to. 

Bitty unlocks the backdoor and leads them out to the porch, where a wicker loveseat rests against the house’s exterior wall. He settles on it with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his coffee mug balanced in his lap. Jack sits just close enough to be pressed to Bitty from thigh to shoulder without seeming suspicious. Everything is so silent around them, other than the chatter of the birds and the neighbor’s sprinklers going off, that they’d hear anyone approaching anyway. He allows his other hand to curve over the outer part of Bitty’s knee, a small but comforting gesture. He likes the feeling of Bitty's leg hair and knobby bones beneath his hand.

The sun rises very slowly. The borders of the Bittle’s backyard are lined with trees, so the sun itself would only be revealed to the back porch at midmorning, but they watch the gradual change of the color in the sky, its dark blue hue merging into an almost angry, dramatic red. The edges of the sky are tinted with pale yellow, a foreshadowing of what’s to come.

“My flight is at twelve,” Jack says, even though Bitty already knows. It feels like something that has to be said out loud. It’s hard to believe that his two days with Bitty will be over in a matter of hours; that he’s going back to Providence, alone, and Bitty is staying here.

“I’ll drive you,” Bitty answers, which is as unnecessary as Jack’s remark; they’ve discussed this before. The teaspoon in Bitty’s mug swirls around in the liquid when he lifts it up to take a sip, and its soft clinking is a nice sound in the silence. “And I’m seeing you in less than a month, right?”

“Yeah,” Jack answers. He feels choked up, empty, fills his mouth with coffee just to swallow down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know if waiting to see Bitty again will be easier, now that he knows what’s waiting on the other side, or much harder now than he knows what he’s leaving behind. He’s not really looking forward to a repeat performance of the last six weeks. Making the effort to talk to Bitty made them bearable, but even that pales in comparison now that he’s actually seen Bitty, touched Bitty, had Bitty next to him. 

“Hey,” there’s a tug on Jack’s sleeve, and he turns his head to find Bitty looking at him, mouth quirked and eyes fond. Bitty allows so much of his emotions to show on his face sometimes; it’d be hard to mistake that expression for anything else. “We’ll be just fine, honey. Morning texts every day, right?”

“Long Skype calls on Wednesdays,” Jack adds, smiling back. It’s funny to think that they’ve never actually acknowledged this routine out loud before.

“I’ll throw in a morning selfie along with my texts if you’ll sign on a movie night every other Saturday,” Bitty nudges their shoulders together, his smile turning cunning, like they’re bargaining. Like Jack's got anything to do on his days off that could compete with Bitty’s voice running commentary on something on TV in his ear. 

“Good deal, Bittle. I've got a three-hour long World War II documentary I need to catch up with,” he deadpans, just to watch Bitty roll his eyes. He nudges their shoulders together in retaliation, lets the touch linger for a moment. “Just a month,” he echoes, then breathes. Just a month. He’s done it before, and he can do it again, because what he wants to build with Bitty is worth it. Will be worth much more than that.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the pale yellow of the sky spread out, the dark blue mellowing into a grayish light shade. A dog starts barking somewhere up the street. A sole car passes by on the road, its tires squealing.

“Coach will be up soon,” Bitty says quietly, tipping back the last of his coffee. Jack doesn’t think he’s keeping his voice low to avoid waking anyone up. It’s just that the early morning stillness seems to demand low voices and heavy movements.

“Not your mom?” 

“Oh no, not today. Her body is still recovering from the frenzy of Fourth of July. But Coach has this annual fishing trip with his guys on the fifth. He invites me every year, like at some point I'll discover my newfound love of sitting still and _waiting_. You’re my getaway ticket this year, so thanks for that, sweetheart.”

“I like fishing,” Jack says absentmindedly. He hasn’t gone fishing with his father in years, but they’ve done it a few times when they’ve gone on holidays during off-season. Shitty always chirped him for being a boring old white dude, but something about the motions of fishing is relaxing for him. “Ha, maybe I’ll join your dad one day.” 

He means it mostly as a joke, but once it’s out of his mouth it no longer feels like one. He rolls his head to the side, watching for Bitty’s reaction, and finds that Bitty is already looking at him with his eyes gleaming. It’s strange, how he arrived so anxious and unsettled and is leaving feeling like something in his future’s just been locked down. He knows that things could change, knows that Bitty and he are going to face some tough times in their immediate future. He’s under no illusion that things are as easy as they seem at six in the morning, when it feels like they’re the only people in the world. 

But he can imagine coming back to Georgia every year, in the summer, with perfect clarity. Can imagine standing by Bitty’s side during family celebrations, or joining Bitty’s father for his annual fishing trip. Bitty has felt like an inseparable part of Jack's life long before he’s had justification for it; now he’s got an atypically optimistic inkling that this feeling will only grow stronger with time.

“That’d be real nice,” Bitty responds, and doesn’t add anything more. Jack thinks that their lines of thought are probably not dissimilar; he’s been working hard at reading the honest answers on Bitty’s face, even when they're not spoken aloud.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Bitty turns off the airport service road and pulls into short-term parking instead of dropping Jack off at the curb. It’s not a decision they make verbally, too caught up with an hour-long discussion about junior year classes and American History and Edna Lewis. Jack doesn’t question it, just keeps talking about Orange County in the 1930’s, aware in the back of his mind that there’s still one thing left to do before he goes. 

Bitty inspects both mirrors while he turns off the engine, peers through the rear window just to be sure, and when it’s clear to both of them that there’s no one around he unbuckles his seat belt and throws his weight over the console board, planting his mouth squarely on Jack's. Jack lets Bitty lick into his mouth for a moment before he cradles Bitty’s jaw in his palm, angling both their heads, easing the kiss into something more forgiving and unhurried.

Bitty's lips turn soft on Jack's, placid, and Jack sighs into his mouth. He pulls them apart, tips his head forward to lean it against Bitty's. They breathe in each other's exhales and cling a moment longer to the comfort of Jack's palm curved over Bitty's knee, Bitty's fingers pressed into the nape of Jack's neck, the muted sounds of the radio and the hum of the AC cranked up high.

"I gotta go," Jack says eventually, and it aches between his ribs almost like a physical pain. Bitty watches him as he draws back and curls his fingers around the strap of his bag in the backseat, hurling it into his lap. It's not exactly a happy look, but it isn’t sad, either. 

This feeling is familiar: having to pull away from Bitty, walk away, when all he wants to do is stay right there. A moment of inspiration strikes him and he smiles, probably a bit self-satisfied, presses a tender kiss to Bitty's shoulder. "I gotta go, but I'll text you."

It has the intended effect. Beyoncé isn’t singing in the background this time, but Bitty grins, his eyes shining and beautiful and hopefully never damp ever again. He darts in, kisses Jack's cheek, and says, "Not if I text you first this time, Zimmermann."

Jack pulls on the door's handle and climbs out, swings the bag onto his shoulder. Bitty's climbing out of the other side, walking around the truck to lean against its back and watch Jack leave.

"Bye," Jack says, foolish, unworried about his earnestness. He starts backing away while wiggling the fingers of his free hand and watches Bitty waving back, figure growing smaller and smaller until he's a smear of pale skin against the faded blue of the truck. Only then does Jack turn around and walk purposely into the airport, his heart starting a staccato rhythm in his chest.

Moments later his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, his mouth stretching into an elated, lopsided grin. He saw this coming, but still.

A text from Bitty. _Already miss you._

Jack squares his shoulders, bites back his smile, and promptly begins the countdown until he sees Bitty again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like this story needed to be told from jack's perspective, for the full effect of awkwardly navigating a changing relationship while being cluelessly terrified and newly in love. 
> 
> but jack is an unreliable narrator. he thinks bitty and he are on the same page, while in fact this isn’t always the case. for those wondering, bitty's pov would be far more manic. jack struggles with how to translate his wishes into reality, but bitty is all like _what the fresh frick is going on_ and _omg is this happening or is this all in my head._ jack's affections and intentions aren't as clearly translated as he might think -- at least until their stargazing conversation. after that they both just stumble around a little because suddenly being in a relationship with one of your best friends is _weird._
> 
> i think july and august were more about jack really putting his all into communicating healthily, as inspired by his talk with dad bob. by the time bitty comes up to providence they are one hundred percent more _a couple_ than two dumb kids in love. jack says this to shitty himself, in bitty and i: he’s bad with his feelings, but he’s getting better. they’re talking constantly.
> 
> by the way, if you ALSO think every character who says 'nothing exciting EVER happens in our small town' should immediately be written into a murder mystery plot, raise your hand. come talk to me [on tumblr](https://parvuls.tumblr.com) about it.


End file.
